


The Scars We Make

by kandlelite



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Fantastic Beasts: Crimes of Grindelwald, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Magic, Blood Pacts, Blood and Injury, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Dreams, Emotional Manipulation, Grindeldore, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Magic, Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Obscurus (Harry Potter), One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Rejection, Self Harm, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Soulmates Gellert Grindelwald / Albus Dumbledore, Violence, Young Albus Dumbledore, Young Gellert Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 10:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 48,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16721334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kandlelite/pseuds/kandlelite
Summary: The scars on his wrists were old by the time he arrived at Godric's Hollow.(Soulmate AU fic, Canon Compliant)





	1. Chapter 1

The scars on his wrists were old by the time he arrived at Godric's Hollow. 

The wind picked at his coat tails, pushing at his body, as if to repel him from the only place he had left to go. Bagshot. The name spread like curdled milk against his tongue and mind, tasting of shame and resentment. He spit it out onto wooden panels of the porch, then gave the growling lion's head knocker a leveled look, taking it into his hand and letting it fall once. It whimpered under his touch. 

The locks on the door clicked and clacked, clattering like unstrung piano keys. When the door finally swung open, all that stood to greet him was an empty foyer and a waft of warm caramel laced with cinnamon. A rasping voice called from the left, "We're in the kitchen, dear!" 

We? Taking another step forward, the door slammed close, knitting up each lock with a rhythmic pattern of clicks. Setting down the case, he walked to the left, through the dining area, and into the open arch of the kitchen hallway. He kept the right hand tucked into his pocket. A tremor of morbid curiosity prickled his fingers. Who could possibly stand the company of his droll great-aunt? 

He rounded the corner with a sharp turn of his heel, stepping down into the cloying cloud of caramel and cinnamon, wrapping him in a warm blanket. He spotted his small relative first, her silver hair catching the lamp light to form a wispy halo around her head. Then his eyes caught a flash of copper. 

Curls, not necessarily unkempt, but particularly fashioned to give the air of effortlessly perfected disorder, framed a small face. A smile startled Gellert from his analysis, and he reciprocated just in time to not seem construed. The copper headed boy stepped towards him, unaware of what danger he approached, "Hello, my name's Albus Dumbledore." 

A silence swallowed him up, in a sliver of timelessness that he could only accredit to a spike in adrenaline and shock. Like stepping out into open air when you were certain the next step would be on firm land. The world seemed to tilt, turn, twist, like he was being Apparated in place. The name was as familiar to him as his own, far before he'd known the meaning. He had carved it off his skin, as to hide it from prying eyes, the moment he had learned it was a masculine name. 

Everyone knew the meaning of the words scrawled into the wrists of wizards, even if they were not cursed with it themselves. How could someone possibly be envious of it, or desire it upon themselves--to be tied to a stranger, even before the world knew of your existence, and to be led by an invisible fate, unable to break from the path carved for you. 

He stepped forward, letting his height be known. His smile still plastered on his face, suiting its purpose of looking friendly and approachable, he said, "Which spell did my dear great-aunt Bathilda cast upon you to have you in her company?" 

A twinkle lit in Dumbledore's left eye, either by the lamp light or by some intrinsic fey light, clasping his hands together behind his back, rather like an elderly professor, "It's a rather powerful spell, old and traditional, and unexpectedly easy to learn, but unfathomably difficult to master without guidance." 

The unexpected response sparked the curiosity once more, striking a slightly different match inside his empty coal hearth of a soul. His fingers twitched inside his pocket, eager to grab hold and see exactly what kind of wizard this boy was. "Care to enlighten this ignorant soul?" 

Dumbledore swept a hand to the animated stirring of spoons in pots and the dusting of cinnamon from a glass container above the swirling melt of sugar. " _Coquo Bellaria._ " As if by his wandless and soundless command, the spoons lifted from the pots and spun the sweet syrup into tight coils, laying them in neat lines on the parchment papers. Bagshot clapped her hands together in delight, laughing with a shared secret. "I dare say he might be as clever as you, Gellert." 

The way Albus looked at him changed in that moment, fingers instinctively reach for the long sleeves around the wrists. He could save them both a future of trouble and walk out of the house once again, but instead, he said, "I am Gellert Grindelwald." 

_Your soulmate, for better or for worse._


	2. Chapter 2

The romantic tragedies and love stories told endless tales of the strangely distinct birthmarks some wizards and witches bore upon their wrists. At first they start as unreadable blobs and as the person matured, it began to form shapes and clarity. He was seven when he was able to read the first letters that formed on his left wrist. "G." 

By eleven, he'd carved the name into his heart, thinking upon it as he entered Hogwarts, where most soulmates in Britain seemed to find their pair. By thirteen, he continued diligently attending each Sorting ceremony, in hopes he'd hear the name called and put a face to the letters on his wrists. By sixteen, he'd gone deeper, this time into the archival records of the school, scouring the pages for the name he sought. By eighteen, he had other problems, and Hogwarts in his past. 

Yet here, in the unlikeliest of places, stood the boy who spoke his name like a promise and an apology all at once, a silver halo formed around his crown, and an eye as white as snow. The fates had blessed him, it seemed, burying a hot coal into his stomach, as he could not help but stare at the way the light caught the planes of Grindelwald's pale face. Like a strange fey creature, stepping out in the moonlight, the silver of Grindelwald's eye shone bright. He was undeniably...entranced.

Letting out a breathe he forgot he was holding, he shivered. Bloody hell. Perhaps it was a good thing they hadn't met in Hogwarts. His studies would have suffered greatly from it. More so than it had. 

Professor Bagshot's eyes shifted between the two of them and she began shooing them both away. "I'll finish these off. Why don't you go settle in, Gellert?"

Gellert took to the suggestion quickly, but had stopped outside the kitchen corridor, waiting on him. His pulse quickened and he felt almost lightheaded at the easy way Grindelwald stood, half turned, watching as he walk towards him. At this angle, he could only see the dark blue eye, giving him a softer edge. 

"Why do you have so many names?" Was the first question Grindelwald asked him.

A jolt of surprise and joy spilled through him. Perhaps it was because the question confirmed his desperate guesses and stamped out any doubt that had shadowed the moment. "And why do you have so little?" He responded in turn, which garnered an odd twist in Grindelwald's expression. It was like he'd said something like a riddle, which, he supposed he had. "Sorry, matter of habit." Merlin curse his quick tongue. 

They stood there, in the dining room, with no more than an arms length between them. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but he knew if he broke the silence, there would be no going back, regaining that precious moment when they simply saw each other for the first time. So he looked and saw what sort of person he'd be tied to for this lifetime. 

Grindelwald was of a larger build than him, taller, and wider, but not stocky. In the stark and austere black long coat that cinched at his waist, just so, with neatly laid waves layering around his head, he had the presence of a being greater than the space his body took. Like a beacon in the darkest of nights, the gravity of his existence drew him in, too powerful to look elsewhere. 

Grindelwald looked back at him, and he wondered what he saw. He knew what he saw in the mirror, a boy, burdened by uncertainty and the pain of premature responsibility, wings clipped before he could take flight, neither plain, nor remarkable in appearance or features. 

The silence broke with a question from quirked lips, "Would you like a photograph?" 

At first, Albus didn't quite catch up with the meaning, but once he slammed into it, heat burst into his cheeks and he looked away at the tea set in the cabinets, trying to find distraction. Instead, Grindelwald's distorted but easy smirk was clearly reflected against the glass surface of the cabinet windows. He paused a moment and swung his gaze back, meeting the gaze with a surge of courage, "And if I did?" 

Grindelwald's smirk spread into a wide grin, as if he'd given the right answer and relief blossomed within his heart, planting roots that would surely deepen quickly. Grindelwald said, "I'll give you something better."


	3. Chapter 3

He pulled the wand from his pocket, holding it lightly between his index finger and thumb, pointing it at the room. " _Accio silver spoon._ " From one of the drawers, a spoon shot out into the open, stopping only as it approached his face. He snatched it out of the air, and knelt down, coat billowing behind him. Balancing the spoon on the table top on its end, he let go and his wand did the rest, pointed at the spoon. 

_"Replicatifors ego."_ His let out a slow and steady blow of breath over the silver, and rather than fogging with the condensation, the spoon began to bend and melt into an amorphous mound. Definition twisted and etched itself into the metallic surface, creating a form that began to show a stern face, a billowing long coat, and a small set of articulate hands that began to clench and unclench its hands. When the final notch was pressed, it opened silver eyes, and looked up at Dumbledore. 

He coaxed it into his hand, the coolness of the silver wrapping around his pinky as the small replica of himself sought security, holding onto his appendage as he lifted it. The small figurine leapt without fear from his hand to Dumbledore's.

He straightened, and the copper haired boy watched the small figure sit down in his palm, bringing it up close to his face to see the details. There was not as much metal in the spoon as he had hoped, so the figure was only about the height of two galleons put together, but it looked far better than all the other attempts he had made. This one had a face. 

"Exquisite." Dumbledore breathed out unsteadily, and propped his other index finger to the small figure who climbed onto it and sat on it, like it was sitting in a great big tree. "I've never seen a Transfiguration charm so intricate." The way Dumbledore sounded, he might as well have said, "Grindelwald, you are the most brilliant wizard I have ever met." And even if he hadn't, Grindelwald let the words comb over him, preening at them. Why yes, it was exquisite and intricate and rare. How wonderful that someone else finally agrees. 

Grindelwald leaned against the table, folding his arms over his chest. He opened his mouth to say something when Bagshot appeared with the tray floating in front of her, the candies neatly piled into a silver bowl. She took one look at the open drawer and the small silver figure in Dumbledore's hand and clucked, "Put it back, dear." 

Before he could begrudgingly undo his fantastic work of art, Dumbledore said, "Let me," as he pulled out his wand. The copper hair boy tapped the tip to the silver and it unraveled into the shape of a spoon, regaining its original identity. When Dumbledore handed it to him to return to the drawer, there was a quirk to his lips. He turned it around and hid a private grin to see that the portrait of his profile had been etched into the handle, among the flourishing flowers and leaves. _Clever._

He tucked the spoon back into its rightful place and slid the drawer shut with his hands. When he turned back, Bagshot had handed over the sweets, a neat red ribbon wrapping around the crinkling parchment into a small parcel. "For your siblings." She said in a low voice, even though it was unlikely anyone were to overhear them in this old house. 

Dumbledore held it in his hands with an awkward phrase of gratitude stuck between his teeth, as if he was reluctant to say them. Then Dumbledore's eyes glanced over at him, and the copper haired boy turned to Bagshot again, "Would you like any other help around the house? I'd be more than happy to stay a bit longer." 

Bagshot, the old crow that she was, nodded her head and patted the boy on the arm. "Of course, my dear. If you don't mind helping, I do think I've forgotten to air out the guest bedroom upstairs. With this back of mine, it's a bit troublesome these days." 

Dumbledore grinned, a white straight smile, without any hint of guile or duplicity. "Yes, certainly, Professor." The boy tucked the parcel of sweets into his coat pocket, that hung near the door, and dashed up the stairs, yelling as he went, "Will it be the one of the left or the right?" 

Bagshot looked at him, seeking a response. 

From his recollections as a child, the left side was closer to Bagshot's own personal rooms, right above the kitchen, where the warmth gathered. "The right." He said.

Bagshot said, without raising her voice, "The one near the library, Albus!" 

He excused himself to pick up his suitcase, and what possessions he had deemed valuable enough to bring with him. The rest he had to abandon. He made his way up the staircase, picking his way through the piles of books, loose papers, old newspaper clippings and children's books. This was why he had accepted Bagshot's invitation, if nothing else. 

Somewhere in these tomes and volumes would be the answer. 

The answer to his future.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the hurt begin.

The first thing he asked for was Dumbledore's hand.

Dumbledore, in all his vibrant, animated desire to help, to be the handyman who helped the old woman with a bad back in the middle of a quiet, dead town, had no idea what exactly would happen when he dumbly just gave Grindelwald his hand.

Grindelwald flipped the hand over, palm up, "And your other?"

Dumbledore held his other hand out, equally as guilelessly as the first. He pulled out his wand and the copper haired boy eyed it curiously just as Grindelwald said, " _Petrificus Totalus_ ," and Dumbledore's small body seized up into a permanent hold. Before the shock of his first spell could wear off, he flicked his wand to the side, silencing Dumbledore, then with a dragging tip against wrist flesh, said, " _Deglubo_."

He could see as Dumbledore's eyes widened and an invisible tremor ran through his bound body, and his mouth closed but straining against a silent scream. He repeated it with the other arm, then burned whatever flesh he had torn off, surgically removing his name from existence. It would have been faster, if it weren't for Bagshot, but he thanked whatever fate decided to have Dumbledore to rush up to his room, conveniently.

When he met Dumbledore's eyes, he could see tears welling up, as well as completely transparent hurt, pain, and of course, betrayal. He could almost hear it in his heart. "Why?"

He responded without the trace of congeniality or affable appearance he had downstairs. Seeing the corners of the eyes wet, and tears slide down, an odd sense of emptiness echoed in him. He knew what it looked like, and what reason he might have done it for. Compassion and sincerity would come later. Right now, he needed to establish the boundaries.

"You and I are not soulmates." He did not look away from Dumbledore when he said the words slowly. He deliberated each enunciation, and made it clear as mountain water pooling from glaciers. Each syllable came down into Dumbledore's poor little chest like a spike in soft, supple grassland, ready to be camped with war. He drove each one as deep as he could, to dislodge any lingering hope that they would ever be as one.

He knew what he must look like.

His eye was this color by accident really. Had been in class, demonstrating the latest spellwork they'd been taught. He got the color sucked out of him, and his fellow student, well… let's just say he had gotten everything sucked out of him sending him straight into a grave. Too young for execution, too prestigious of a school to overlook the act, too dangerous to reveal to the world what they had allowed to prosper in their grounds. So they had expelled him.

At first, mirrors shocked him. He looked like something out of a badly funded propaganda poster. Then he got used to it, and realized it suited him. It gave him an otherworldly look he didn't mind. That he could use.

There was a minute quivering in Dumbledore's frame, like the shifting of particles, then with a burst, the binding spell came undone, rage filling the small face with each muscle. "You and I are soulmates!" Were the words that came out of that snarling mouth, and he realized it had not been his action, but his words that had set off the wrath. The copper haired boy didn't even reach for his wand, and he flicked a ward over the door, to prevent any overhearing.

The words came rushing at him, swift and surefooted, like a jackrabbit's quick steps, "Just because you stole the name from me, does not change that we are bound."

Slender shoulders straightened and in the shift of posture, Dumbledore's presence began to fill the room, pushing at the seams of the containment. The feeling began to wrap around him as Dumbledore's blue eyes burned fire into his chest, and the words rang inside his ears, louder than it was spoken, "You are still my soulmate."

The silence that followed seemed to fold in on Dumbledore, doubt creeping in when he did not rise to the fight. He sidestepped to his case which he brought up to the bed, releasing the clips and deliberately acting as if there was no one else there. The silence stretched.

Dumbledore's steps were slow, almost hesitant as he approached, and when the boy crossed into personal space, about an arm's length away, he turned his head, leveling a downward cast silver eye at him. Blue eyes searched his face, and then he heard the copper haired boy asking, "May I?"

The eyes flickered to his own hands.

He turned to face Dumbledore, lifting his own hands, palms showing. The hands that grasped his were bloody, but it did not seem to bother Dumbledore, even though he could see the sweat sheen around the edge of the copper hair. Fingers undid his cuffs, and pushed at the fabric there.

Dumbledore's hands did not move after and the boy's body froze as he came to terms with what he saw.

He did not have to look down to know what Dumbledore saw.

"I didn't know any clever spells at that age." He supplied with surgical coldness.

Cold fingers grazed the rough jagged edges of his scars, almost afraid to accept it. Dumbledore's throat bobbed and a glassiness glistened in his blue eyes again, "How old were you?"

"Seven." The eyes flashed up at him, and lips parted, both showing horror. Then Dumbledore bowed his head, letting copper hair fall over his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Dumbledore said without looking up.

He raised a single brow, then replied with sincerity, "I'm not."


	5. Chapter 5

Albus was shaking.

From what exactly, it was hard to pinpoint. Maybe the calculated way his soulmark had been removed, or was it seeing the brutal scars that only echoed a greater harm, or perhaps it was the heartless nature of his counterpart, having committed both without remorse. He couldn't focus on anything, his heart twisting, his mind whirling with fragments of thoughts, mostly images and pain. Pain.

When it had happened, his mind had reeled but it hadn't been from the pain. Something didn’t quite fit. Between the harsh words and the easy banter they had exchanged downstairs, the contrast was obvious, but it hid something.

Something.

Something his mind kept spinning around, but not sure what the focal was.

He breathed out, slowly, a steady blow to clear the noise in his ears. He settled into the beat of his heart and forced it to slow into a calm tempo.

In the quiet seclusion of the washroom, he raised his own wrists, studying them.

The removal of skin was precise. None of his major arteries had been broken, keeping the most important passages intact. The blood that flowed was slow, and with the right potions, he might not even have scarring. Even though he no longer had the letters, he had memorized their size, their shapes, their length. The removal was precisely at the outer limits of each letter, not taking more than it had to.

He ran a finger against the edge, a clean straight line, no jagged edge, no bumps, no mistakes. Upon closer inspection, it really was only the layers of skin that had held the pigmentation of the soulmark. Nothing else was stripped away.

This had been premeditated, easy to know by the rapid succession of spells, but even the way the name had been removed had been thought out in detail. This took practice. Grindelwald would have had to have figured out exactly how to remove the letters, how deep he had to go, what would be the fastest, the most efficient.

Like the silver figurine in the dining room, this was craftsmanship. Under the violence, strangely, there was care and attentiveness. Had Grindelwald also predicted that he would see past the superfluous nature of the harm? Had that been why he'd said… a shiver ran down his back. They had been deliberate, to extinguish any question or doubt Albus might have had about Grindelwald's intent. The words were meant to hurt him. It had. It had been both a statement and the makings of a promise.

He would not let Grindelwald follow through with the promise.

He pulled out his wand from his pocket and held it over the left wrist first. He could hear the Charms Professor's strung out voice warning the class that the spell was only for objects and materials, not for living things. _It will, no matter the skill of the caster, cause severe scarring._

Healing spells designed to relieve and remove the traces of injury would be the predictable reaction, but would not suit his purpose. He said, " _Reparo_." Gritting his teeth, he hissed when the flesh around his wrist twisted and molded to cover the exposure. It hurt more than the original injury, and the curdled look of skin was almost repulsive to look at. Sweat slid down his temple.

He repeated it with his other wrist and then let out a shaking breath when it was finished. He twisted his arms, and it felt stiff, the scarring flesh knitted too tightly and still tender with stunted nerves. His body shuddered at the permanence of the scars.

This way he could remind himself.

No matter what Grindelwald did to severe this connection between them, he would not be able to erase it.

His mind drifted to the starkness of Grindelwald's appearance, the danger presented, just by being. He had not seen it downstairs, but it was clear now. Everything about Grindelwald had been whittled, whetted, weaponized. His magic, his body, his mind.

But he would not let Grindelwald weaponize his soul.

Not while his Soulmate existed.


	6. Chapter 6

Grindelwald placed the calendar on the wall, having taken down a picturesque painting of a wide meadow where a badger shuffled at a tree trunk, a raven crowed in the tree, a snake slithered in the grass, and a lion looked out upon the rest of the background. He marked a date, November 1st, then flipped it back to July, crossing off the first seven days. 

He had four months. 

The mark on his arm itched, but he did not acknowledge it. It always itched. The Tracker keeping his healing at bay meant he had to keep it bandaged, to prevent the blood leaking from ruining every shirt he owned. It also meant he had to resist the urge of scratching, since it would do nothing but irritate his skin further since all it was trying to do is heal the mark carved into his flesh.

The magic was old, depended on runes as well as spellwork. 

They carved it into his skin, shortly before expulsion, making sure that wherever he might go, when the time came, he could be found and brought to court for trial. In court, they would excavate every experiment he conducted, every piece of information he collected, and twist it into something cruel, mad, dark. They didn't understand. He supposed, they never would be able to. They were too narrow minded. 

Runes, unlike spells, had no convenient _Finite Incantatem_. They were dangerous and powerful because they provided a certain sense of permanence. The usage of Runes in most other parts of the world was the backside impression of what power they truly held. Most used it as a secondary alphabet, or thought of it as an ancient writing system. 

The true magic of Runes had been kept secret even before the first schools of magic were founded, only members of the Druid Circle learned them and knew how to use them. Typically, the Druids do not aid Durmstrang, not interested in the politics of education, preferring their own form of social seclusion, but they had made an exception for him. They lent the Headmaster a convenient way to imprison him without causing scandal to the school's reputation. Also, the Druids had owed the Headmaster a favor, after he'd help the Druid Circle maintain their secret order in the eyes of the International Confederation of Wizards. 

They were confident when they released him, sent him out with the rest of the students when the year's term ended. 

Thankfully, he'd prepared for the day this might happen, since he began his potentially ethically difficult experiments. He'd done his research on runes, whatever he could have given the elusive nature of information regarding actual applications of runes. He knew he didn't have the power or the understanding to directly affect a rune, once it was marked, but he had a theory that it could be masked. 

He placed his ink and quill on the desk, then pulled out his wand to elongate the desk. He'd need more space for research and cross referencing. He hated cramped desks. 

As he rearranged the rest of the room, removing whatever he felt was unnecessary, transfiguring whatever he could to things he did need, and hiding anything that he'd brought with him, a knock came from the door. He paused his ministrations, neatly pushing a bookshelf back into its original place. "Come in," he said. 

Dumbledore opened the door, a drawn out quality to his expression, and a tiredness in his shoulders. Blue eyes darted around, "You've certainly been busy." The boy entered then closed the door behind him, but didn't move away from it. He was slowly learning. Eyes went to the calendar, the only 'decoration' now left on the wall. 

Grindelwald waited. 

Dumbledore took noted of every change he'd enacted to the room, and he appreciated that about Dumbledore. Bagshot hadn't been entirely wrong. Dumbledore was clever, but he hadn't shown anything to signal he was on the same caliber. "Professor Bagshot spoke of you, before you arrived, said that you had studied at Durmstrang." 

Grindelwald replied, "I'm sure that's not all she spoke of me." 

Dumbledore's eyes rested back on him, "She also mentioned you had lost both your parents, like me." If this was an attempt to forge a bond through past grief or sympathetic memories, Dumbledore had made a fumble. 

"I didn't know them. Only that they left me enough inheritance that I could do as I pleased." 

The counter had not been the one Dumbledore was expecting, but he took it in stride, continuing, "She also mentioned you had no immediate family to depend on." 

His lips pressed together. Now, where could this conversation be going? 

Dumbledore moved away from the door now, going to the calendar that had been hung up. The boy studied it, and the German words. "When does Durmstrang usually end its term?"

"First week of June." He replied, since he couldn't lie about it. 

"That's two weeks before Hogwarts." Dumbledore said, though it seemed it was mostly a personal comment, than part of the conversation. 

Dumbledore turned back around, now leaning against the desk, crossing his arms, "She also mentioned it had been many years since you've visited." 

He did not narrow his eyes, it would give too much away. He also didn’t say anything.

"You're not here because school's out and you need a place to stay during the summer vacation months. You're one month too late for that, and you said so yourself, you have enough inheritance that you can do as you please." Dumbledore was staring at him now, blue eyes intent with clarity, setting up what he probably thought was a clever little trap. 

He smiled, cutting Dumbledore off before he could gain any sense of victory, "Yes, I'm actually in England because I'm looking for something." He didn't need to hide it. Anyone who saw the books he'd inevitably be unable to conceal, or heard the questions he asked would be able to discern his interests, if not his motives. 

Dumbledore seemed to mentally stumble, his brows knitted with a bit of confusion before righting themselves. "What are you looking for?" He asked, forgetting his mission to put together the puzzle himself. 

He grabbed a book off the shelf that he'd put there a few minutes ago. He tossed it at Dumbledore, then said, "What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?" 

Dumbledore looked up from the worn cover of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. "That they are tales told to toddlers and tykes." 

Grindelwald walked to Dumbledore, opening the book, spreading his hand across the pages, the other hand pressing against Dumbledore's hands holding it, an intimate gesture to distract, "And what if I told you they are real?" His voice was low, like he was telling a secret. He watched as Dumbledore stood shock still, and moved his hand off the page, revealing the small runic symbol of the interlacing triangle, circle and lines. 

Dumbledore's body shuddered, as his hand traveled slowly to now hold both Dumbledore's hands. The reaction was exactly what he'd wanted. Lashes fluttered, then looked up at him, words passing through parted lips, like an answer to a prayer, "I would ask for proof." 

Their eyes met and held. 

Four months was a short time. On his own, it had been a daunting task, possible but not probable, but perhaps with two, he could change the odds. 

He would have to test Dumbledore first, to see his abilities firsthand. 

Grabbing the book from Dumbledore's hand, he tossed it to the bed. Dumbledore looked at him with startled eyes, then even more startled shock when he grabbed his hand, pulling him closer. 

"So I shall."


	7. Chapter 7

Albus would not lie to himself that some shameful, carefully secreted, but brutally honest part of himself had seen the book fly over to the bed and thought that's where he'd soon be when Grindelwald had grabbed his hand. It was ridiculous, since nothing about the conversation could have possibly led to that conclusion, in addition to the fact that Grindelwald had denounced their soulbond, and tore the letters of his wrists as confirmation. Still, it was a part of him, and he would not lie to himself about this. 

Grindelwald swept him out of the house in a flurry of twisting coattails, and fast steps, pushing them both into a gait that was not quite a run. "Where are we going?" He asked as their steps echoed against the paneled walls of houses, but his words were caught by a stray wind that pulled at Grindelwald's white hair. From behind, he looked like a ghost, trapped in the world of the living. 

They rounded a corner and saw the church that sat in the middle of the town, a quiet and eerie place just before dusk. Their pace became a run when Grindelwald pushed forward, steps becoming urgent, like time was running out. The sun's rays still lit the sky with orange, it was soon fading, casting blue shadows across the graveyard as they approached. A stray ray between trees caught the crest of Grindelwald's head as the head turned, giving him momentarily, the look of a prince. Grindelwald was saying, "Over here." 

The graveyard was quiet, the only sounds their breath, not labored, but deeper than usual. Grindelwald knelt down and nodded his head at the stone. "Look." 

He knelt down as well, and in the last light of sun, he saw the symbol. A neatly carved arrangement of shapes, a triangle, a circle, and a line to go through them both. His fingers reached out for it, remembering the inked version in the book. He frowned, "This… isn't proof." 

The name Ignotus Peverell and the years 1214 and 1292 was all that he could make out between the cracks. The edges were lined with runes, though he could not read what they said, since the light had diminished beyond the horizon, leaving them in darkness. Grindelwald's voice was low, but it was deep and carried across the graveyard, giving a haunting atmosphere, "Three brothers traveling a twilight road, met Death and came away from it with three gifts." 

Grindelwald's finger started from the bottom of the vertical line, travelling upwards, "The Elder Wand, an unbeatable wand," then continued to the left, traced the edge of the symbol, along the triangle, "The resurrection stone that can bring the dead back." He paused before he traced the circle, splitting his fingers to travel both sides of the circle at the same time, "And the Invisibility Cloak, that can hide the wearer from anything, including death." 

Dumbledore had not been watching the fingers, but Grindelwald's pale face as he spoke. He could not tear away his gaze, even when Grindelwald lifted his gaze to him, and his mouth closed. He wanted to reach out, to touch the silver hair, the plane of the high cheekbone, but he was afraid it would shatter this illusion. They were here, side-by-side, together. 

Grindelwald didn't look away from him as he continued, and he could not help how his eyes lowered to the moving lips, as Grindelwald said, "Their names were Antioch, the eldest, Cadmus, the middle son, and Ignotus, the youngest. The Peverell brothers." 

It took some time to have the words sink in between the movement of Grindelwald's lips, which was all that Dumbledore could really focus on at the moment. Then slowly, he turned to look at the gravestone again, blinking, trying to clear his mind. All he could say is, "It's just a tale." 

But he knew the story. His mother told it frequently to them. They had said to each other, when they were supposed to be asleep in bed, huddled together under a cover, luminated wand between them, if Ariana had been a boy, they could be the Peverell siblings. He would have the Elder Wand, since he was the eldest, and the most clever with magic. Ariana would have the invisibility cloak so she could spy on her two elder brothers better, even though she shouldn't. Aberforth would hold the resurrection stone, because the other two were taken, and Aberforth was boring. Aberforth had been the first to dismiss the idea, saying it was stupid to think about something that wasn't even real and that they had both completely missed the moral of the story. Aberforth had been the one to throw back the cover and go back to bed, telling them to shut up and sleep. 

He traced the symbol again with his hand, "Why are you looking for the Deathly Hallows?" The question seemed far away, like he'd spoken from another location. 

Grindelwald didn't respond immediately, and when he looked over at him, he could almost see the calculations passing through the silver lined mind, weighing each response and their benefits or consequences. Finally, the boy said, "I only want the gift given to youngest of the three brothers." 

Why Grindelwald hadn't simply said the Invisibility Cloak was lost on him, but he could sense that the words had been carefully selected. With all the courage of Godric Gryffindor in him, he lifted his hand, then placed it firmly on Grindelwald's shoulder, "Where do we start?" 

When the silver eye lifted to meet his, a flicker of something passed across Grindelwald's face, but it was too fast and too controlled to figure out what it might have meant. He would get to learn all those things about Grindelwald too. He would learn everything there is to know about him. 

Besides, he didn't have a real job, since he didn't count helping Professor Bagshot with 'archiving' as a true occupation, but she had been sympathetic when he had forcibly returned to Godric's Hollow. He was thankful, but it was boring, cataloging all the books, papers, and references she had in the house, trying to organize them in some way. This would be a good distraction to pass the time. 

"We need to find out what Great-aunt Bagshot has in her collection. There's a high likelihood she would have some historical references to the Peverells, considering she's lived in Godric's Hollow all her life, and she's a book hoarder." Grindelwald pushed up to his feet and held out a hand to Dumbledore. 

He took it, even though the thought of this adventure turning out to be entirely identical as his not-job, was disappointing. Perhaps this was fate, to be stuck scouring books. 

Grindelwald's hand was warm against his cold one.

At least they would be doing it together.


	8. Chapter 8

Grindelwald walked slowly next to Dumbledore, lining up their steps together, since the way back was less interesting than that of the initial trip. The old crone's house smelled strange, like a concoction of dusty books, baked goods, and that unique smell that old people always had. It was not pleasant, and they didn't need to return to it so quickly. He kept his hands in his pocket, holding his wand in his hand loosely.

It was warm here. He hadn't taken off his coat since arriving in England. It was more of a habit than anything else that had kept it on him. He'd been on the move for a month now, and everything he had, he had carried, always needing to be ready to go to the next place. It had been harder to find information about the Peverells from mainland Europe, so he'd come to England to see what else he could find, closer to the source. 

Dumbledore seemed to be lost in his thoughts, eyes fixated on the space in front of him, pace slow with distraction. He did not have to wonder long what the boy was thinking, since he began to speak, "It seems unlikely that they had really met Death on a Bridge." 

Religion in the Wizarding world was vague and loose, much rather preferring what is and isn't rather than depending on faith. Death, of course, as a personification was likely only a storytelling tool. He let Dumbledore have his space to formulate his thoughts into words and was rewarded after some time with, "I think it's more likely that the Peverells were gifted and powerful wizards, who succeeded in creating those objects." 

"Why do you think so?" 

"Why would Death be so invested in a river, if there are so many other ways to die?" 

It had not been a thought he'd dwelled on, but this kind of logic could really only be from a unique personal history. He looked over at Dumbledore, at the way his eyebrows were drawn tight and eyes were dark with memory. The look of pain from fresh grief. 

The words Dumbledore had mentioned came to him belated, tagged onto a statement that had meant to conjure compassion from him. _Like me._ Either one, or both of his parents had died recently. Recently enough that the gravestones and the Deathly Hallows had become a backdrop to a different and real pain, woken anew by his words. It did not suit him to empathize. 

It had not been a tool he used frequently, since it came with so many more strings than he preferred, but with the way the small copper haired boy's shoulder sagged with burden, he stopped. 

Dumbledore stopped too, turning to him in question. 

He asked, "Did they suffer?" 

Dumbledore's face shifted to confusion then his eyes darted to his, surprised by the question. He supposed the question had seemed abrupt based on their previous topic, but it had irked him, because he had seen power in that small frame. When they stood face to face and Dumbledore had shoved his statement back in his face. Despite everything he'd done. The person in front of him now was a faltering candlelight, with barely the strength to keep aflame. 

"In different ways, they had." The words were cryptic enough that Grindelwald appreciated the craft. It admitted truth, but only enough to hide the rest. 

"Did their suffering cause their deaths?" 

Again, Dumbledore seemed uneasy with his questions. They were not the sort that one typically said upon the knowledge of recent departures. He asked them anyways. Morbid curiosity and all. 

Dumbledore inhaled deeply, gathering his strength and then let it out. "For my father, yes, for my mother, no." 

"What was the cause of suffering?" He said. Blue eyes flashed to him, offended. He'd forgotten to coat the words with sympathy, or some form of tenderness, so they came out as he naturally spoke. Exact and sterile. Like a knife edge. He tried again, "Apologies, I didn't mean to be callous, I… am just curious." 

Dumbledore studied him for a time, jaw working as he unwound whatever anger that had stirred. "Azkaban was not a safe place for my father, and my mother…" He had asked a question that had been a bear trap for Dumbledore. It seemed to catch him, fixate him to a spot in his mind, tearing at him. 

The way Dumbledore's head lowered and his hair covered his face said more about his thoughts than his words, "She was doing her best." 

They did not speak the rest of the way back to the crooked house. Dumbledore lost in his thoughts, and Grindelwald giving him space. When they reached the doorway, Dumbledore said, "I should head back. I have to make dinner for my siblings." 

He nodded, and watched as Dumbledore left, walking down the street, an image of loneliness that struck Grindelwald oddly in the stomach. Like it shouldn't be that way. He ignored the feeling and stepped inside. 

By the doorway, Dumbledore's coat hung. 

He reached for it, knowing that if he hurried, he could return it to him, and Dumbledore wouldn't be so alone on the street. 

He clenched his fist as the thought sprang and he cursed it. He stamped it out with each footstep that took him up the stairs. 

A Soulmate is a source of weakness. That much is clear.


	9. Chapter 9

He'd made it all the way to putting plates on the table, and pulling out his chair for Ariana when he said, "Oh." 

Her eyes lifted to his, a soft brow rising, "What is it?" She sat down, smoothing out her dress as she did so. It was old and the blue was but a distant memory. She needed new clothes, but it was hard to justify why he was buying a young lady's clothing, considering most people did not know of her existence. Most people, except the people he trusted. 

"It's nothing," He said as Aberforth came into their dining room, which was also the kitchen and the living room. 

Aberforth sneered, and raised his own brow, but it held more contempt than Ariana's. "Oh really?" 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sat down, when Ariana kept looking at him, patiently, hands folded in her lap delicately. She looked like a wisp of a person. So fragile that upsetting her might shatter her. He sighed, admitting, "I forgot my coat at Professor Bagshot's house."

Aberforth's chair screeched as it was pulled back, and he sat heavily onto it. They looked similar, definitely related, but their personalities were as different as a dog is to a cat. "Classic. It's just like you, Albus." The name was said with cruel slowness, drawn out in mockery. "So inattentive." 

The jab was like how Aberforth dueled. Ruthless and fast. He turned his attention to distributing the food. Of course he'd also forgotten the candy in the pocket of his coat, so he had no way to fling back Aberforth's comment. 

"Abbie, it's dinnertime," Ariana's gentle voice said, and Aberforth's temper quenched, his eyes going soft and gentle at Ariana's words. 

"Yeah, sorry, Ari. It's just that I'm worried." Aberforth said, without contempt or venom, just honesty. 

Ariana's brow lifted again and Aberforth said, grabbing his fork in his hand, jabbing it into the meat, "Who's gonna take care of you when I'm back at Hogwarts?" He took a bit of the potatoes, chewing and swallowing without tasting it. Not that there was much to taste. 

Albus picked up his own fork, pushing at his meager cooking abilities, just some bangers and mash, "I said I would Ab." 

The fork stabbed down on the sausage with force, and the plate screeched from the impact. Albus looked at the plate, worried he'd have to repair yet another piece of the house. It was already falling apart without Aberforth to expedite it's demise. Ab's blue eyes, so much like his own, drilled at him, "You say a lot of things, but you lie just as much as Mother did." 

Anger quickened his blood pulse, but it would be foolish to face Aberforth while there was food on the plates. It would become a terrible mess to clean up. Instead he sighed, "That's enough, Ab." 

Ariana piped up, "It'll be fine, Abbie. You can teach me how to cook something simple for when you're away." He hand came to settle on Aberforth's forearm. They were all similar in that way, they all had some way of getting people to do what they want. All by different means. 

He ate without tasting the food, more interested in abandoning this conversation and this place more than anything. It felt like a cage, designed to make him miserable and awfully depressed, but there was a light, Grindelwald had shown up in his life. 

Aberforth and Ariana exchanged ideas on what Ariana would be able to make, and what to teach first. For all the cantankerousness Aberforth held other people, towards Ariana, he was like a giant puppy. Eager to help, eager to please. He'd always felt estranged by their closeness. It was something he could never achieve with either of them. 

He finished his food quickly, and put the plate back in the sink, letting the water run a bit. Ariana and Aberforth finished as well, but Aberforth left without so much as a backward glance at the empty plate. Ariana's still had food on it, but she had a difficult time eating much. They went to the back to tend to the goats. Aberforth's pets, which he'd refused to part with even in these times. 

They'd recently got into a physical fight over the goats, and his ribs still smarted from the completely non-magical fight. Fisticuffs had never been his strong suit, but Aberforth was not old enough to duel with magic outside of school. He cleared the table with a gentle swish of his wand and watched as the plates were cleaned. The extra he put in the icebox, which was running low on ice. He put another spell on the meager remains, praying they would last for another week or so. They'd already lasted for more than a month with his spells. 

He sat back down at the table, weaving his fingers together and closing his eyes. He pressed his forehead into his hands. 

Why was it that everything he hoped and dreamed for never seemed to go his way? 

The rejection that Grindelwald had nailed into him had ignited a fire in him that had been deep, from an ancient place. Something he'd held onto for essentially all his life, but now, in the quiet kitchen, with nothing but his apprehension and self-esteem issues, it hurt him more than he'd realized. That had been the one thing in his life he had always been certain about. Even if his siblings hated him, even if his parents were gone, even if his friends were more like superficial relations, and his flings empty at first light, he had a soulmate. 

He had an anchor in this sea that threatened to capsize him. 

Now, it seemed even the anchor wanted to abandon him to the storm. 

He would not cry, because it would be a mess to clean up, to hide evidence from his siblings. They only had the two rooms. One was mother's and Ariana's, the other he'd shared with Aberforth. It was cramped and two teenage boys with abrasive personalities made it practically unbearably claustrophobic. Usually, he either slept on the couch, or stayed up, distracting his mind with books. 

Letting out another long breath, he let his thoughts focus around the mission he was suddenly pulled into. 

How does one search for a mythic object of power that for most people was just a legend?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for leaving such sweet and thoughtful comments.  
> I love reading each and every one of them. Love seeing what you guys like!  
> Let me know if you catch any mistakes in my writing! I wrote it fast and in one sitting, so I might have missed a few things.

Morning came too quick, squeezing between the slivers of the dark curtains, reminding his body of the passage of time, and that he had been sitting in the chair for several hours now. On his way up the staircase, his eye had caught the spine of a book, labeled, Medieval Wizards and their Importance. 

It had been written more as prose than as a book of information, which had initially irritated him enough that he almost didn't read it. It would have been far more useful if the author had not tried to give the subject his own personal flare and je ne sais quoi and just wrote it as it should have been, structured and indexed, cataloged by time period. Instead it had been a meandering tale shifting from one person to the next in an unhelpful way. It was highly inefficient for him to read through every page, but there could be a sliver of information of use in this muddied novel. 

His eyes felt raw after staring at the pages for so long, getting more and more frustrated with the writer, as they seemed to add bits and pieces of their own opinion for no good reason, other than that they thought they were clever. He pushed it away from him, placing another book to mark his place. 

He stretched, and pulled off his shirt. He hadn't changed clothes since arriving, but he had not brought an extra set. His departure had been swift and he'd packed for maximum efficiency, not fashion. He traveled down the stairs to the kitchen, looking for something edible to keep his stamina going. He hadn't eaten much for the larger part of the week and it had caught up to him. 

He rummaged through the pantry and pulled down a container of cookies, a plate of leftover cake, and then a few mince pies. His lip curled into a snarl. Nothing but sweets and sugar. He peered into the icebox and there was some meat, preserved by ice and spells, and what looked to be a pie. Is this really all the food that crone kept? Sweets? 

It was the one thing he couldn't stand. The sugar gave him headaches. 

He picked the ground meat out of the icebox. It seemed alright when he sniffed it, and he grabbed a pan to cook it. It didn't take long, the small balls of meat he'd smashed together getting that browned look. He sprinkled a touch of salt on and then slid them onto a plate. Picking them up with his fingers he ate them. They were still slightly pink on the inside, but he didn't mind it. He ate them quickly, then washed the grease from his fingers, leaving the pan and the dirty dish as they were. 

He rounded the corner when he ran into another body. He expected to see his aunt, but instead he saw the flash of copper. 

He frowned. It was early, barely dawn. What was Dumbledore doing here? 

Dumbledore was staring at him, eyes wide and concentrated on his bare torso. He looked down to see what might have Dumbledore so entranced and realized it wasn't anything but his chest, and perhaps his abs. He was well defined, the outlines of his muscles taunt and his pectorals were filled out from his late night exercises to keep him occupied rather than sleeping. Exercise gave him renewed energy whenever he flagged into sleepiness. 

"Good morning." He said, which had Dumbledore stepping back. 

"Uh yes… yes. Good morning." Dumbledore said, still distracted. When he lifted his eyes finally, Grindelwald could see a slight darkness underneath them, and a sort of glassiness that meant that either Dumbledore had little or no sleep that night. 

"Eager?" He said, which had Dumbledore flushing, then frowning. He helpfully added, "To find the Deathly Hallows?" 

Dumbledore blinked and then flushed even more, the redness spreading across his face and down his neck to his chest. "Y-yes. Of course. That's.. Yes." Dumbledore shook his head then nodded firmly. A prickle of warmth filled his chest, like someone was pouring warm milk into his heart. It was endearing. 

He caught the smile on his face halfway as the corners of his lips moved, and turned it into a line, controlling his features before anything could be seen. It had come unbidden. Forcing the soulbond into his control would be harder than he'd thought. 

Without seeming tense, he passed by Dumbledore, waving his hand, "Get started then." 

In the reflection of the china cabinet glass, he could see Dumbledore mouth slightly parted, watching him leave. He set his head straight and continued up the stairs hoping, that Dumbledore had been too distracted to see the mark on his arm.


	11. Chapter 11

In the haze, all he could think about was the natural scent about Grindelwald, like musk, on a layer of freshly turned earth, with a hint of a sweetness lingering at the edges, and the red bleeding mark, stark against the white arm. 

It had been a roughly drawn symbol, but not something he'd seen before. It looked like it was fresh, like someone had taken a very sharp stick, and carved it into his arm. The feeling of scars on his fingertips came to him and he frowned. Self harm did not fit the cunning mind and dangerous appeal of Grindelwald, but there was no one else who could have made that, since Professor Bagshot wasn't the sort to deal out bleeding wounds, and the rest of the town had been asleep. 

Like another puzzle piece that he'd gathered, he tucked it into his mind, keeping it safe. 

In the middle of restless sleep on the couch, he'd had a thought, and it had carried to morning between nightmares and uncomfortable dreams. If Ignotus Peverell was real, and a wizard, a powerful wizard, there would be records of his lineage. The story had said, that Ignotus passed his cloak to his son when he had met Death again. 

Professor Bagshot kept a multitude of books, and one of them, he remembered, was an old registry of births from Parish Church of St. Clementine, the church down the street, where Ignotus Perevell's grave lay. Why or how she had it and not the church, he didn't know. He'd placed the book somewhere in the storage, having thought it would not be useful to anyone, even Professor Bagshot who was writing a compendium of Wizard History. 

He entered the kitchen, bringing in the groceries to make Professor Bagshot some breakfast, and it seemed someone had already began preparations, but then he saw the empty plate left on the counter. He opened the icebox and frowned when he saw that the ground meat was gone. He must have left it there for at least three weeks now. He'd been planning on throwing it out, since Preserving spells only helped with meat for about a week or two at max. He'd simply kept forgetting to. 

Hopefully, it hadn't spoiled yet and Grindelwald would be fine. 

He went about chopping and frying, and had a bit of hot water boiling, when Bagshot appeared, "Oh dear, Albus, do you think you could fetch some Bell-ease Potion?" She had a wand out and began taking over the kitchen appliances and cooking. "I'll handle this." 

He was running out the door as fast as his legs could carry. There wasn't an apothecary in Godric's Hollow. He'd have to go to Diagon Alley for anything of that nature. He closed his eyes and put his wand out, Apparating into a small alleyway near Slug & Jiggers, he hurried to the entrance. It was too early for the store to be open, since it had barely turned dawn, but he had a building anxiety growing in his own stomach, nausea ripe. 

Standing front of the window, eyeing the Bell-ease potion on display, he realized the nausea wasn't his own. It was Grindelwald's. 

He bit his lip and held a wand to the panel of glass, most unobstructed by items. He whispered a spell and the glass vanished, and then he held one hand to the opened hole, saying, " _Accio, Bell-ease Potion._ " A pink bottle flew to his hand, nearly knocking over one of the tall bottles in the window displays. For a moment the tall bottle looked like it would tip over, but it didn't and set itself right. He held the bottle, and searched his pockets for some sickles. He knew he had some. He found two in his pants and pushed it under the door as compensation. 

Then he Apparated to a spot near Bagshot's home, and rushed inside, dashing up the stairs to the washroom. Inside, behind closed doors were awful sounds of retching and vomiting. He opened the door without invitation and entered, closing the door behind him. It was a little crowded for two people, but he knelt down next to Grindelwald's crumbled form, pushing the bottle towards him. 

"I've brought you some Bell-ease." 

Grindelwald's head lifted, and he had to hold his breath from the acrid smell of vomit wafting towards him. Grindelwald's eyes were a bit bloodshot, and his skin looked pasty, more so than usual. He looked so young then, and so human. 

A shaking hand came up to grasp the potion bottle, and covered his own, heavy and warm. The bottle left his hand and a thumb popped it open, upending the entire contents down an open mouth. The adam's apple bobbed as Grindelwald drank, and a trinkle of the potion began to trail down his chin to his neck. 

Dumbledore had the wild urge to clean it with his tongue and clapped a hand over his mouth to ensure he did no such thing. Grindelwald didn't notice and finished the bottle with professionalism, even though the potion itself probably tasted horrid. On cue, Grindelwald muttered with distaste, "It tastes like sweets and rubber." 

Grindelwald sat back, pulling a hand across his mouth, to wipe off the potion and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. The potion was thankfully fast acting it seemed since the nausea in his own throat had subsided. One eye opened, the silver one, and Grindelwald gazed at him for a long time, then said, "You have my thanks." 

Dumbledore shied and the confession came before he could save himself, "It's my fault that you're sick. I should have thrown out that meat last week. It just escaped my mind." 

A hand came to rest on his, which was clenched on his thigh. He looked down at it, at the unexpected tenderness of the gesture, Grindelwald lifted his head off the wall and said, "I could have been here all day, wasting precious time. How did you have Bell-ease on hand?" 

"I didn't. Had to go to Diagon Alley to get some." 

"But it's too early for Diagon Alley to be in service yet." Grindelwald said, knowing how he'd visited one morning to find that every store in the area didn't open until at least 9. Some even later. 

His face flushed and he reluctantly admitted, "I may have vanished one of the window panels and helped myself to a bottle. But I left the money under the door! So I didn't steal it, per se." 

Grindelwald's face broke into a wide smile, completely genuine and utterly handsome, then it disappeared when Grindelwald seemed to notice what his face was doing. It had been a precious second of uncontrolled honesty and Dumbledore held to the image with a tight grip, keeping it in his heart and mind. Grindelwald looked away then back at him, "Unexpected, but clever," he said. 

"Unexpected that I am clever, or unexpected cleverness?" He asked, needing to know the distinction. 

Something twinkled in Gellert's eye, but he didn't say anything, just quirked his lips in a smirk. 

To say he grinned with all his heart, was an understatement, his face felt fixated into the expression, even as he went back to the kitchen to help Bagshot.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 kudos!! Ahhh, thank you all so much for the encouragement.  
> It makes me feel incredibly blessed that you're here to read this story.  
> Thank you for sending me comments of the things that piqued your interest,  
> hope to know what you all start to think about this precarious relationship! 
> 
> Again, much love to you all, enjoy!

The smile blinded him, but he could not look away, only let it sweep the darkness out of his soul, like a tidal wave, and a surge of ecstasy left his chest feeling tight when Dumbledore left the washroom.

It had left him more breathless than the violent vomiting had. He pressed a hand against his chest at the foreign feeling, almost at the verge of painful by the impact it had. What was that?

He stared at the door to the washroom, thinking about the copper hair, and then down at his scars. Was that… the soul bond? Or was that his?

Pushing himself up onto the feet, he felt unbalanced, both physically and emotionally. It hadn't been entirely the spoiled food that had caused it. No, some of it was Dumbledore's fault. Whatever that smile did to him, had changed something in him. Something he hadn't known was broken.

He rubbed his hand across his chest again and looked into the mirror. He saw his stark reflection, his sweaty forehead, his emblazoned silver eye, and his dampened hair. It was possibly the least attractive he could possibly look, having also just expelled most of his stomach's contents. Yet, Dumbledore's eyes had look at him with attraction.

At least that's what he surmised.

He was not familiar with the signs, since most of his interactions with people were construed and no one dared approach him for any 'friendly trysts'. Not that he would have accepted. It was a part of himself he would rather not indulge in. It seemed to twist people's minds into irrational decisions and bouts of illogical hysteria. Jealousy, betrayal, tragedy, all hallmarks of lust and love. The bannermen of a cruel lord.

The smile flashed again in his mind, involuntarily and again the warmth poured around a kernel of something new. It bothered him that he didn't know what it was. If he didn't know what it was, he couldn't control it. He turned the faucet and splashed water to his face. Hanging his head over the sink, the water gushing out, his ears strained to hear when he caught a muffled laughter downstairs, reaching out through the house to him.

He splashed his face again and looked to the toilet. This weakness was because of his weakened state. When he was whole again, he'd be fine. This feeling would pass.

With renewed determination, he went to his room to bind his arm again, and then cast a minor cleaning spell on his clothing, slipping back into the shirt and hiding the scars with a quick buttoning at his wrists. When he arrived in the dining room, three places were set out, Bagshot already sat at the head, and Dumbledore was in the act of sitting in the chair to her left, a hot plate of food to her right.

His great aunt smiled at him, "Come, your stomach will need something since you've emptied it."

Hesitantly, without looking at the copper haired boy, he sat down stiffly. This was probably his first 'family' meal in many years. He didn't know the etiquette in England now that he'd spent most of his youth and teenage years in Northern Europe. Bagshot began eating first, so he picked up the fork and sliced into eggs. He ate slowly, making sure to smell the food before he took a bite to make sure he didn't trigger his nausea a second time.

There was a bit of jam spread across his toast so he avoided it, clearing the rest of the food.

Dumbledore looked at him with a tilted head, "Do you not like toast?" He asked.

He let his eyes flicker to Dumbledore, forcing himself to look at him without faltering. "I enjoy bread, but I don't have much taste for sweet things."

Dumbledore shrugged, "Well then, it's a good thing you have me," and stood up, reaching over and then grabbed the slice, sitting back down as he bit into it. There was something so familiar about the act that it had almost felt scandalous, especially with his great-aunt sitting right there. Bagshot didn't seem to notice and continued eating her beans.

It did not help the tightness in his chest.

It only made it worse.

With the dishes cleared away, he was with Dumbledore, peering at him opening up boxes upon boxes. They were in the basement, a dusty dungeon, a little too dank for comfort. "Isn't this why the spell Accio was created in the first place?"

Dumbledore blew out some hair from his face and pulled open yet another box. "Well, I could, but I don't remember the name of it, and honestly, I don't think it had a title, considering it was just a church record. All I know is that I saw it recently and packed it away."

He squatted down next to Dumbledore, "What did it look like exactly?"

"Old, leather bound, maybe red, or brown in color?" The copper haired boy said.

Grindelwald looked at the opened boxes around them, more than a third were of that description. He sighed, feeling the ominous presence of the immense quantity of boxes around them, all for one book, that may or may not have anything of value.

"Would you mind if I helped jog your memory?" He asked.

Dumbledore stopped and looked at him, "Jog my memory?"

"Durmstrang trains all their students in Legilimency and Occlumency. I did exceptionally with Occlumency, and amply well with Legilimency."

"I wish Hogwarts had. Would be useful, for my memory that is." Dumbledore didn't seem repulsed or adverse, so Grindelwald shifted so that he was cross-legged on the floor.

He needed his wand still, since he wanted to make sure he had control over the spell. Dumbledore mirrored his position, and their knees were but an inch from touching. "I'm ready when you are."

"Are you sure? I will try to be as careful as I can, but I may see something you may not wish for me to see." He warned, though that was exactly what he was going to do. Look for every secret in this mind and pocket it for future use.

Dumbledore's blue eyes were clear and unmarred when he said, "I trust you."

It drove a needle into his heart, a painful prick. He wiped the pain away with a raise of his wand hand and touched it to Dumbledore's temple.

" _Legilimens_." He said, and he was thrown into Dumbledore's mind.

It was less complex than a typical arrangement of memories, which overlapped and muddied each other. Albus Dumbledore's mind was like a series of pools, each with a set of memories that were tied together by some theme. He could tell the first pool he dove into were relating to Hogwarts and his education, his readings, any learning. It was vast and fascinating, ranging in subjects that closely paralleled some of his own.

He moved to the next pool, which contained flashes of unfamiliar faces, conversations, banter, social engagements with other students. This must be where all the friendly interactions were kept, though even from skimming, it did not seem any were strong friendships.

Passing to the next pool, he caught a glimpse of Albus saying to a girl, "I am sorry, and you are pretty, but I don't think it'll work out." Tear streaked cheeks reddened and Grindelwald objectively could say that the girl would be deemed reasonably well formed.

The girl, blonde, with dark doe brown eyes, looked to the hands that held hers, "It's because of him, isn't it?"

"Well, he is my soulmate, after all." He heard Dumbledore saying in that gentle tone of his, which was obviously trying to soften the blows as much as he could.

"It's not uncommon for even soulbound people to find love outside of their bond." She said with a begging in earnest, like she'd studied the subject and had found data to support her claim.

"I don't think I'll ever be one of those people." Dumbledore now let go of the girls' hands, and she dropped them limply.

Grindelwald expected her to walk away, in defeat, but miraculously, she lifted her head with a smile, bittersweet but honest, "You are the best soulmate anyone could wish for."

Dumbledore had a bashful smile to his lips, "I do hope so."

Then the conversation spiraled into a bunch of giggles and guesses of what Gellert Grindelwald would be like. Foreign by the name, she surmised with a thoughtful expression.

Dumbledore listened to all her theories and ideas, smiling, then when she asked him what he'd want his soulmate to be like, all he said was, "I just hope he loves me as much as I do."

It crushed something in his chest that he could feel distantly even through the Legilimency connection that separated the mind from the body. If he'd been in his body, wholly, he would have probably choked on it. It had been both revolting and sad, that this is all Dumbledore had wanted.

He pushed away from the memory, quickly diving into the next pool, skimming it quickly as he could. These memories had an almost dark quality to them, like someone had forgotten to light them properly. They were ones of pain it seemed. He saw the most recent one flash by, his own visage staring back, cruelly, words loud in his ears, his own words. You and I are not soulmates. He saw his own act from the audience, and he had been the perfect actor. Ruthless and merciless.

Then another memory shot forward, without being searched for, like it couldn't help but rise up. A mangled body, bloody dress, limbs at unnatural angles, blue black lips of death, skin jagged with black lines, and in the corner a shaking trembling girl in a nightgown, clawing at her own scalp and blood staining her fingertips. Then it was gone. Forcibly torn away from him. Dumbledore had said he didn't know Occlumency. This was sheer will then. Like Dumbledore was using every modicum of mental force to make him leave, and pass on, without technique, without skill, just raw power.

He let it go and passed onto another section, and then another, being more swift as he felt the growing unease and pressure against his own mind. Finally in a deep subset of pools, he found where all the miscellaneous memories went to be forgotten. He saw the pages being flipped as Dumbledore tried to discern what the words meant. It had dates and names in a neat flowing script. The book was put away into a box with a gold-gilded green book with the words Monster Book of Monsters on the spine.

When he opened his eyes, Dumbledore was not looking at him, but had his eyes closed, his hands clenched tight. His face was drawn tight and he said, "I’m a romantic, hex me."

He eyed Dumbledore in silence, when finally the blue eyes opened. It wasn't the romantic exchange that had been on his mind, but the way Dumbledore had pushed him. Forced him out of a part of his mind. Albus Dumbledore was powerful. It hadn't been obvious before, since nothing he'd done seemed to indicate any great amount of magic.

But it was undeniable now that he'd felt it, and a curl of desire began to grow within him.

That morbid curiosity again, tingling his fingertips.

"You surprise me, especially when I'm expecting it."

Dumbledore's blue eyes flickered to him, and they held each other's gaze. Dumbledore said, "Isn't that the purpose of surprise?" Not seeming to understand what he had done.

His soulmate was possibly the most powerful wizard of their time, and he didn't even know it.


	13. Chapter 13

When the memory of the incident had risen, it had been an instinctual reaction to push Grindelwald out of it. He didn't know exactly how he knew how to do it, other than that he'd found that feeling of Grindelwald's mind and shoved with all his might. He hoped it had been too brief of a glimpse for Grindelwald to know anything about its importance.

He had never been Legilimized before, but the experience had intrigued him, it had been like Grindelwald was swimming through his mind, going from one place to another. He could also sense when Grindelwald slowed or when he skipped past things, so he knew that Grindelwald had taken interest in the memory of him speaking with Penelope.

It was odd to return to that specific memory, it had been such a fleeting one, barely something he dwelt on. He didn't talk much to Penelope afterwards, as the term had ended and the following year they took different classes. From Grindelwald's staunch repulsion of anything that seemed to do with emotion, sentimentality, and love, it was possibly the most ludicrous aspect to wish for in Grindelwald's eyes.

Albus would come to terms with the repulsion. Besides, it's not like any of his wishes do come true.

With a sigh, he said, " _Accio Monster Book of Monsters_." A box rattled second to the right column, then burst when a book came forcibly through the wall of the box, puncturing it. It flew to his open hand, and Grindelwald had a strange expression fixated on him. Like he did something fascinating yet dangerous.

"What?" He asked as he held the book in his hand. "It's just Accio."

Grindelwald rose and went to the newly holey box and pulled it down, opening the lid. He pulled out the leather bound book and said, "Found it."

He pushed up onto his feet as well, and dropped the Monster book back into the box. "I'll have to rearrange these again later." There were several books in various towers, with opened boxes covering more of the floor.

Grindelwald swiveled his head then swept his wand levelly in a wide gesture and the books, the boxes, tucked themselves into their rightful places, and stacked neatly back against the wall and even the gaping hole stitched up. As if nothing had happened. Dumbledore lifted both his brows, "That was efficient."

With the book tucked under his left arm, Grindelwald stood a little out of place. "I … can teach you." The uncertainty of the tone, suggested that teaching wasn't something Grindelwald usually offered.

As they climbed the stairs, Albus asked, "Have you crafted many spells on your own?"

Grindelwald emerged from the basement first and nodded, "It helps keep me occupied at night."

"At night?"

"I have an unpleasant relationship with sleep," Grindelwald said as he laid the book out in front of them. It was very old, but well taken care of, and as they flipped the pages, the handwriting styles changed, as the record keepers came and went. At times it was difficult to make out the letters, but really, they were just looking for 1 name.

They flipped page by page, starting from the cover, Dumbledore reading the left side, and Grindelwald the right, and nodding if they were done. The birth dates started in the year 1727, and continued, but by the time they reached the early 1800's, it was unlikely they would come across the Peverell name in this record.

They shut it, without exchanging words or comments.

It had been a good idea, but there was no sign of the family in these books.

Bagshot wobbled over to them from her study and asked, "What are you boys up to?"

She looked down at the book closed in front of them, and recognized it instantly, despite its rather inconspicuous cover. "Are you looking for someone in particular? Perhaps I can help."

Grindelwald didn't look like he was going to ask, but Professor Bagshot was known for her interests in history and historical figures, with an uncanny ability to remember people. Hurriedly, before Grindelwald ruined their chances, he blurted, "Do any of Ignotus Peverell's descendants live in Godric Hollow?"

Professor Bagshot hummed and hobbled to a seat. "Little Harry, yes, he was such a sweet child. I don't know where they went, but that was many years ago. His mother had wanted to move closer to her family when he was born."

"Was he born here?"

"Yes, I remember how happy his mother had been. She was a proud lady, and it had been wearing down on her that she couldn't carry a child. Feared she was barren."

They exchanged a glance then pointed at the book. "The records didn't show any Peverells."

"That's because Ignotus's granddaughter married Hardwin Potter, but the Potters have always lived in Godric's Hollow. It's their town after all."

The realization took them, and Grindelwald was opening the pages, now from the back. They fell back into the routine and took their sides of the pages, searching in tandem faster now that they knew what they were looking for.

His eyes caught it, and he pointed, stabbing the aged parchment. "Henry Potter, born July 18th, 1891, to Hamish Potter and uh… can't read her first name, but Mrs. Potter nee Fleamont." Dumbledore wrapped Bagshot in a gleeful embrace, and grinned up at Grindelwald.

"We did it! We found it!"

The laughter that followed the words were infectious and Bagshot joined in with a warm chuckle.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! So this is the last chapter I had buffered up before the next part.  
> It's definitely where I started to lose some steam, so my apologies if the chapters after this one feel a little different. 
> 
> I will do my best to write as fast as I can to give you daily updates! 
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy and let me know which parts you liked or didn't like!

As Dumbledore and Bagshot laughed, delighted by the discovery, he felt the first bubbles of laughter rising in his throat like an over agitated bottle of champagne. He kept the cork tightly bottled, and let the feeling rise, simply enjoying the moment without letting himself be too overt. This was the first sign that things were going to be alright, ever since the color had been bleached from his body, and his life.

When the last of the laughter trailed away, he looked to Dumbledore, seeing his easy smile, and said, "Thank you."

Bagshot, thinking he was talking to her, delusionally said, "I'm glad I could be of some use to you boys, now I do think I need to get back to my study. The book won't write itself, I just needed some tea." She stood from her seat and hobbled into the kitchen, leaving the two on their own.

Dumbledore began to close the book, but even as he did so, he began picking at the leather engravings, his lip kneading between his teeth, "We still don't know where the Potters could have gone. It could be a dead end. Besides, they might not even the right descendent. Any number of the Potters could have it. They're gotta be more than just one line." All the nerves and self doubt was rushing out of Dumbledore like flooding waters.

He stepped closer to the copper haired boy and grabbed his arm, spinning hims around. Then he placed both his arms on the table, to trap Dumbledore between him and the edge of the wood, his face almost hovering over Dumbledore's.

Softly, almost inaudibly, he said, "Dumbledore, stop."

The words were heeded instantly, Dumbledore's entire body freezing up in a coiled sack of anticipation. "Stop what?" Dumbledore asked, breathlessly.

"Stop thinking." He commanded, voice deep and cool.

Dumbledore let out a breath, "I can't."

Grindelwald leaned forward, making sure to make his movement painfully slow, until he had his lips side by side to Dumbledore's ear, reflecting Dumbledore's previous words back, "Well then, it's a good thing you have me." Even though they weren't touching, the color of Dumbledore's ears warmed into a bright red, and he could practically hear the thundering of speeding heart beats. Dumbledore's body trembled as he moved slowly, moving his hand around Dumbledore's personal space, stretching out the seconds. The boy's breathing shifted into shallow fluttering, and tension rippled up the boy's body.

The reaction confirmed his suspicions, and he catalogued it in his mind, tucking it inbetween the memories he'd just perused and the conversation they had last night about Death. He didn't know how he would use it just yet, but it would serve its purpose. A nice little trick he could pull from his sleeve at the right opportunity.

Grindelwald's fingers found purchase and picked up the book off the table, tucking it under his arm. He stepped away, not a single touch upon the copper haired boy. "Fleamont." He said.

In the moment between his retreat, and his words, Dumbledore seemed to crumbled, his knees slightly bent, and his arms holding up all his weight on the precipice. The red blush spread from his face to his neck, ears, and even down to his chest. Dumbledore's brain seemed to stutter and finally, after a minute of rearranging his composure, the copper haired boy nodded.

Dumbledore then straightened, composing his state of being, then said, "Right."

After a moment of pause, Dumbledore mused, "Where would we go to find information about a family ancestry? Other than church records." He agreed, it was unlikely they'd meet a similar convenient coincidence regarding the Fleamonts as they had with the Potters. Dumbledore folded his arms over and tapped at his arm. "We could see if the Ministry has any records. I know there's an archive of family trees in that dreary place, since I was just there a few weeks ago."

The suggestion was suitable, a logical choice, especially since the Ministry would have kept precise records of any wizard family of pure blood, but at the moment, he could not risk having his presence be discovered by the Ministry. Not with his age. The Ministry of Magic's Trace, unlike the Tracker, would limit his usage of spells, and he'd be crippled. It would turn this search improbable into impossible. "We should split our efforts. Go to the Ministry and see what you can find. I will take the local approach."

Dumbledore accepted his suggestions without contest, and pocketted his wand. He didn't wear a jacket today, just a loose white cotton shirt, thread-bare rather than lightweight, and an old vest, with a mousy brown gray coloring, that couldn't seem to pick one side or the other. His hair was a bit more wild than it had been the day before, and a breeze picked at him, sweeping it to one side.

When he turned, the sunlight, caught in the copper, flashing gold for a second, then Dumbledore said, "I should be back before dinner, but there's some egg salad that Bagshot made this morning in the icebox. With some toast, it should suffice for lunch." Then he Apparated.

Again, Grindelwald appreciated the casual display of power, considering most people this age had a difficult time stomaching Apparition, or moving past the fear of accidental splinching, let alone mastered the art of wandless Apparating. He didn't fail to notice Dumbledore had barely made a sound as he left, barely leaving a trace behind him. 

Not even the stray leaves on the ground had stirred.


	15. Chapter 15

Entering the Ministry of Magic had been easy, gaining access to the right Department, had posed a bit more trouble and thought. 

The security guard held his wand in his hands, one on each end, having weighed it. His build was wide and tall, much like a boulder or a bull. "State your purpose." Those thick fingers could snap his wand at any moment. 

"I'm here to redact a soulbond registration." 

The guard's face shifted from bushy suspicion, to bushy consternation. He had thought of it when he watched a doting pair of parents leading their young child through the security line. "Soulbond registration," the father said proudly. Soulbonds weren't uncommon, but they were noteworthy enough that they held a certain status in wizard culture. They were coveted by those who possessed them, and envied by those who didn't. 

He had registered his own soulbond here many years ago, barely remembering the experience, other than the incessant wailing from Aberforth, and Ariana's own distress at her brother's cries. Mother had to juggle both their temperaments, but managed to hold onto her own when she passed through security with him trailing after. Father had been busy, though now, looking back on it, Father had always thought his soulmark an uncomfortable reality. It was a masculine name after all, and soulmark or not, it was not publicly acceptable. 

The man did not bother asking him for proof, as he suspected, considering it was incredibly private in nature. Instead his weight shifted and the wand was handed back to him, an arm sweeping out to gesture him through, "My condolences, young man." His beard wiggled while he worked to say something else, "I know it's not me place to say, but," His black eyes were heavy with empathy, and his hand went to his empty ring finger, "at least you had one, yeah?" 

All he could say was, "Yeah," and he hurried past, making for an empty elevator. 

How would he feel if he really was here to remove the soulbond from the records? Typically, that meant the other party was confirmed dead, which happened in two ways. The usual way was natural death, in the company of their soulmate, the only proof needed a lifeless body. Some say that without the soulbond, typically, the remaining soulmate will not live for much longer. In heartbreak or for some other magical mystery, he could not say.

The other way is when the two have never met and the name fades from existence. It happens as the life leaves the body. Sometimes swift, sometimes not. 

The loss of his own was possibly unprecedented, since there was no wizard or witch in the world who would willfully deny the spiritual bond and connection that made them whole. Or at least, that's what he'd had believed. 

Then again, it was hard to be certain what Grindelwald's motive had been. Grindelwald's reactions and his interactions fluxed between stone-cold and flowing. In the moments that he'd been pressed up against the table, he'd really thought that Grindelwald would have at least bridged the space between them, whether for his own malicious purposes or for some other manipulative reason, but he hadn't. Grindelwald had just… let him go. 

He stepped into the elevator with a heaviness in his chest, making it difficult to breath. Honestly, he could do as he had stated, down to the soulmate registry and strike the bond from the records. It was likely what Grindelwald wanted, but there had been moments, brief as they were, but real moments when he'd felt that the wall was crumbling. Maybe it was more akin to digging through a rock wall, many feet thick, with only but a dull spoon, but he had to believe there was hope. 

Otherwise, what was the point of living, if even this was against him. 

The elevator jerked to a stop and he hurried out before it yanked away, off to pick up another passenger. 

He'd come at the right time, when most people were still busy with their work hours and didn't have the time to make their way to the Department of Archives and Registration. 

He remembered last time he'd been here, it had been packed with people. He'd come in the afternoon, just after the funeral, to transfer the title of Head of the Household to his own name. The memory was foggy and he'd barely been mentally aware of all that happened that day. All he could do at the time was keep himself together. Just by a thread. 

The woman at the desk looked up at him and did not smile. "May I help you?" 

He cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders, hoping she would see purpose in his pose, rather than unpracticed impersonation. "I'd like to make a change to my family tree." 

She pursed her lips and looked at him over her half moon glasses, already at her patience limits, "Name?" 

"Albus Dumbledore." 

She nodded and pushed away from her desk, motioning for him to follow. 

She tapped large, ornately carved wooden doors, which had the impression of an old oak tree, with a large canopy and deep roots. They opened up into a large room, far too large for even light to reach the top most shelves. The stacks contained square drawers, each with a curled leaf of different shapes and sizes as a handle, and the name of the family scrawled neatly underneath. 

She gave him a once over and said, "You don't look the type to make trouble, but I'll warn you anyways. If you attempt to break into any of the other family trees without explicit permissions, your eyes will be gouged out by the wards in this room, and anything else the family put on their safe box. No one but you will be at fault from falling caused by blindness and protection hexes." 

She sniffed the air with a curt nod and then left the room. He peered at the ladders leaned up against the stacks, many floors high. He gulped. Well, here goes nothing. 

He walked down the narrow path leading through the towers of stacks. Each letter was marked in a large red letter above his head. He found the F and followed down the dark path. "Lumos." He whispered, even though he was currently the only person down here. 

He began climbing the ladder, passing name upon name upon variation of names. His eye caught the letters FL and he stopped his ascent, he pulled himself along the silver bar, when the ladder shuddered from the movement. He closed his eyes and forced himself not to look down. 

Flack, Flaherty, Flanagan, Flanders, Flannagan, Flatley, Flattery, Flavell, Flaxman, Fleet, Fleetham, Fleetwood, Fleming, Fletcher. 

He paused, and returned to the boxes he just passed. 

Fleamont would have been situated between Flaxman and Fleet. 

The family tree wasn't here in the Ministry. 

He frowned, confused, then began the slow descent back down to solid ground. He felt much less light-headed once his feet felt stability. 

Well, this trip had been for naught. 

Or maybe it wasn't. 

He crossed the narrow path to the other side, where the families with the names starting with G resided. He clambered up the ladder, a little quicker than he had with the first one. He found the start of what he was looking for and tugged himself across the floor eagerly. 

Grimes, Grimely, Grimsey, Grimshaw, Grindle, Grinham… 

He scrunched his nose. 

Again, nothing. 

With a sigh, he descended. Well, he had tried. 

It seemed Grindelwald was just as much a mystery as Fleamont was.


	16. Chapter 16

His plan required a bit of finesse, and charm. 

He returned the church records to the boxes, and went to fetch his coat. It was rather too hot for a full coat, but wearing just his white shirt would rouse too much gossip, considering who he planned on speaking with. With a swish of his wrist, the coat zipped into a slightly more compact, dark grey vest, suitable for a mild stroll. 

He needed to do something about this eye of his. Proper ladies would balk at the sight of it. Carefully positioning his wand against the corner, he transfigured it slightly to give the appearance it was blue rather than ice silver. Would be exotic rather than disturbing this way. For his hair, he ran his fingers through it, the color changing to a dark brown as he did so, letting to fall as it pleased. Neither overdone, nor too unruly, perfectly presentable. Pressing his thumb to his cheeks and sliding it across, he sprinkled freckles, a light smattering. Then he cupped his nose and made a bit wider, a bit more bulbous at the end, and grabbed the straight razor from the sink. It transformed into a pair of spectacles and he pushed them onto his face. Looking back in the mirror, he could barely recognize himself. The slight changes made him look mousy, and bookish, but also fairly naïve and absentminded. 

Emerging from the house, he took on a slow strolling pace, turning and admiring the architecture as he walked. The morning in Godric's Hollow, unlike dusk, was a quiet but social village. Neighbors greeted each other, making small talk. A child crawled around in a garden, while two young ladies spoke, occasionally glancing to him. They weren't the proper age. 

He continued on the street, passing a few empty houses, then turned a corner, almost as if he were on his way to the church. An older lady, about the age he thought appropriate, elegantly coiffed greying hair, with beady eyes side-eyeing him as she watered her carnations and he deliberately walked passed her. He made the appearance he was wandering the town, pausing in front of the church plaque to read it, then traveling further down the road. He turned down one street, then another, and then took another right after it meandered for a stretch. By the time he arrived back at the carnation gardener, he had worked up enough of an aura of frustration and cluelessness, that might suggest he was lost. 

She was already tucking her wand in her gardening apron, when he began whirling his head around at the street corner. He approached her, bending into a formal bow, then pushed the glasses back onto his face when they slid, "Milady, I do apologize for disturbing your morning, but may I ask for some assistance?" 

With a polite shallow curtsy, she said, "It's no matter at all. What can I assist you with?" Her eyes darted to his bright eye and then to his dark one, then to his casual clothing, not overly wealthy, nor shabby. Deeming it socially appropriate to speak to him, she lifted her nose, sniffing stiffly. 

"Well, you see, my father, he recently passed away, but he spoke frequently even as his breathing became laboured and hackish, that he'd much like to see his old friends." He started, spreading his fingers wide in sweeping motion. "Although he's no longer with me, I'd like to pay my respects." 

Her firm lips pressed and she curtsied again, "My condolences, young man. Who was your father's friend?" Her stance was relaxing, her etiquette shadowed with sympathy. 

"I believe his name was Hamish Potter. Do you know him?" 

The sparkle in her eye gave her away, like a magpie flocking to a shiny object, he knew he had her enticed. "Well, let me see, I do recall a Potter family living in these parts." 

He leaned forward, stepping towards the hedge, mimicking eagerness, "Could you tell me which of these houses he resides in?" 

"My apologies, dear, but they moved from here many years ago." 

He sank his shoulders low, bending his head forward, and curled his chin to his chest. On cue, her bird-like voice said, "Though I do recall attending their moving party. Seemed they were planning on moving to the city, where his wife was from." 

"London?" 

She clucked her tongue, "She had a Scottish tongue and temperament." 

That was what he was looking for. He bowed quickly and darted away, thanking her as he went as he disappeared on a side street when her eyes could not pry. As the passed a quiet house, with an untrimmed hedge, he eyed the bundles of paper scattered in the yard. Most were in various degrees of rot and disarray, but a few, remained untouched. The gate was open, so he let himself in the front yard, picking his way through the graveyard of old news and thin paper. 

One still had a crisp curl to it, the paper unmarred by the weather. He picked it up, checking the date. Good, it was todays. He'd forgotten to grab it before Bagshot had. Tucking it under his arm, he left the rest of the scattered pages. Then working his way through the back streets, made it to Bagshot's residence, just as she emerged from her study. "Young man?" 

He had not changed his features back to their natural state, and even Bagshot, who knew his magical signature had been fooled. His skills were advancing, satisfactorily. Not quite at the level he needed, but close. Once he's able to mimic the entirety of another's character, he'd deem it an apt mastery. 

With a swipe of his hand, he wiped the transfiguration from his face and Bagshot's eyes widened, "Oh Gellert, I didn't even recognize you. You're getting quite good at that." 

Without responding, he passed by her up to his room. The less she is involved, the better. 

"Lunch?" She called up after him, her voice already weak and distant. He shut the door, without force, just letting it click shut. He marked off yesterday's date on the calendar with red ink. Flicking his wrist, he summoned his journal, and in a coded language, a mixture between cuneiform and runes, recorded what they had discovered, from where, and who had told him. 

Once he finished, he left a space underneath, for whatever Dumbledore might bring back, if anything at all. In the next few pages, he copied over the editors and writers from his copy of the Daily Prophet, marking which names had switched columns and who had received the headlines. With little interest in anything else other than the names, he placed the copy of the Daily Prophet on the far left of his desk, away from his writing, and began his stack. 

From his suitcase, he pulled out a pamphlet, that expanded into a sprawling map with the touch of his wand. He lifted it to the empty wall, pinning it into place with a spell. It was a world map of the wizard world, with crashing waves, weather patterns, and even slight greying in the areas where darkness passed over the world. He touched the tip of his wand to Edinburgh and let yellow seep out around it, waiting until it reached about 50 miles outside of the city. That should cover the location nearby the city to be considered close or within. Then he tapped the tip to Godric's Hollow, marking it with a green color. 

He stepped back. 

In a day, they had found out more than he'd done in a month. No, that wasn't true, he had simply laid out the facts, and made a social visit, Dumbledore had found it. Like a hound to a fox's hole, Dumbledore had stuck his nose right in and had flushed the quarry out for him. He always found working with other people to be dragging, like they were a weight that he had to pull with him. At Durmstrang, he voluntarily worked on group projects on his own, and had no trouble with managing the workload. With Dumbledore, it was like having a well trained dog on a hunt. 

He could taste the sweetness of accomplishment spread in his mouth, tantalizing.

It made him crave more.


	17. Chapter 17

As he left the Ministry, he walked a ways down the street, just watching as people passed by him, as if he didn't exist.

He couldn't blame them, and it would be foolish to do otherwise, considering, he hadn't done anything to deem him qualified for fame. Sure, he'd been an incredible student, being entirely humble, but what had that surmounted to? He had no job, no prospects, nobody sending invitations to Godric's Hollow.

He entered Diagon Alley through the turning bricks. He should apologize to the Apothecary about taking his supply of Bell-ease. Even if he did leave some money in return, he hadn't exactly known how much it cost.

As he walked, his eye caught a street peddler's cart, lined with children's books, trinkets, and toys. Hanging from the edge of the cart was a necklace, meant for kids, judging by the long cord and the cheap metal. "Pardon me, sir," he said, as he picked the necklace off the cart's hook. "How much for this?"

The man peered at it through his monocle, grinning wide, "A fine selection. One of the best of Beedle the Bard's stories. For you, I'll make it 1 round Galleon."

He cringed. A Galleon was precious these days. He rummaged in his pocket anyways, and pulled out the gold coin, flicking it over to the peddler.

The man snatched it out of the air deftly, not missing a beat, then tucked it into his own pocket. He tipped his hat and bowed, "Thank ye very much, lad, enjoy!"

As he walked the rest of the way to the apothecary, he rubbed it between his fingers, warming up the metal. There was a bit of a crowd around the entrance of the shop. He stopped short.

Aurors.

It had been a mistake to come here so soon.

He ducked into an alley, and peered around the corner, putting the wand to his ear to enhance his hearing.

"It's just gone! Vanished! Nothing but a bottle of Bell-ease is gone!"

"This hardly seems to be a malicious attack," said one Auror to another in a quiet whisper.

The other man seemed to agree and replied, "We have to do our duty, regardless."

"And most distressing is that I found 2 sickles under my door this morning. You all very well know that 2 sickles is what's used by the Grecian's to get passed the river Styx! Someone's out for my head!" The man held up the two coins in his fingers, pushing it into the Auror's face as evidence.

The two Aurors who'd kept their distance approached, examining the Sickles, "You say it was a Bell-ease potion?"

"It means I'm to die a horrid death by poison to the stomach. My late uncle visited Sicily once, never was the same, you know."

"We'll see what we can find out," the Aurors said, and Dumbledore had a split second to duck when one of them keenly glanced in his direction.

He cursed silently, then Apparated back to Professor's Bagshot's residence.

Having spent the day away, the Professor would likely be wondering where he'd disappeared to. Despite their informal arrangement to give him some form of income, they hadn't defined exactly what he was responsible for. He just couldn't stand the idea Bagshot had given him this 'job' out of pity and her brief friendship with his mother.

He pushed open the door, and entered the home without knocking. The door remembered people and those it knew, it kept open for. Only strangers and rare visitors faced the tight security of the lion's head. Bagshot rarely opened the door herself, being too busy with her research and writing.

Speaking of, where was she? He knocked on the study door, "Professor?"

No answer.

He knocked again a little louder, "Professor? Is there anything I can help you with before I go?"

Again, no response.

The door was unlocked and he pushed it open easily. Towers of books, bits and pieces of notes, scattered papers were strewn haphazardly across the floor and every available surface. Three massive, floor to ceiling bookcases lined the far end of the study, and he rounded the tallest piles of books, which typically obscured the view of the desk seat from view. The chair on the other side was empty, a quill placed into the inkpot, a book still open, and a page half written beside it.

He frowned, carefully picking his way through the forest of papers, knowing that in this chaos was Bagshot's wild form of organization.

"Professor?" He called again. Maybe she was in the kitchen. It was close to dinner time.

He rounded the corner, but the kitchen was lifeless. No sign of even a pot warming for tea.

The house was quiet. Almost lifeless.

Pulling his wand from his pocket, he tiptoed to the staircase, slowly evening out his weight to minimize the creaks of the boards. He did not call out again, and eyed the empty washroom, dark and ominous.

This throat tightened at a stray thought floating to the surface. Grindelwald had been quick to send him away, and had said he'd take the, 'local approach.' He hadn't even thought to question it.

The door to Grindelwald's room was shut, and a soft light came from it, but no sound.

He twisted the door to the other guestroom, across from Bagshot's residence. "Lumos." He whispered and the light glowed. Even with the white light, it was still too dark to see, but he could make out the silhouettes of dusty furniture. Untouched.

Closing the door again, he took a deep breath, trying to prepare for what he'd find in the Professor's personal rooms.

He opened the door and stepped inside, sweeping his wand light across the empty floor. "Hello? Professor?"

The room was large, with a fire place which he surmised was a part of the chimney that ran from the kitchen up the side of the house. A large arm chair blocked his view of the fireplace, but the bed was empty. A pot of tea and an empty tea cup sat on the end table next to the arm chair.

He approached the arm chair, holding his breath.

Professor Bagshot sat in the cusioned arm chair, head tipped forward, chin tucked against her chest. He rushed to her side, "Professor?" He did not touch her, but even his presence so close by did not wake her.

She had a book in her lap, almost slipping out of her uncurled grasp. The notes and writing was all done by a familiar hand, and the photos were hazy with age. On one side was a portrait of a couple. The woman was beautiful, fair in features, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a sultry coyness to her gaze, holding a hand over her rounded belly, whereas the man standing to her side, with a hand on her shoulder looked like an eagle, stern and severe with judgment in his posture and eyes. His hair jet black, and his eyes coal. Underneath the photo was a note, "Ellie's Engagement Photo."

On the other side of the book was another photo, though this one was of a young boy. He too had the fair features of what he now presumed to be the mother. Although he could tell by the facial structure and the body proportions that the boy was young, there was very little 'childishness' in the boy's expression or posture. As if someone had taken a much older, possibly elderly man and swapped the bodies.

It was haunting.

Under the photo, was the phrase, "Visit to Great-Aunt's."

He did not have to study the photo much longer to see that this was Gellert Grindelwald, at the age of 6 or 7.

Coldness flowed threw his veins as he looked upon Bagshot's sleeping face again. He stood up, wand out and rushed to Grindelwald's door, shouldering it open. It hadn't been locked, and Grindelwald looked up from his book, a blank look on his face. The book was closed slowly and Grindelwald rose to his feet. "Something wrong?"

He couldn't bear, all of a sudden, the cool composure of Grindelwald's posture, and the completely perfect farce that he was innocent. "You know what's wrong, what did you do to her?" Confusion rolled over Grindelwald's face but it was subtle. "What makes you think I had anything to do with it?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth to accuse him of his general lack of empathy for other people, but then closed his mouth. It wasn't true. Even though Grindelwald had tried to act without feeling or care for his own well-being, he'd done it in a way that hid a careful attentiveness to pain and suffering.

"She won't wake up." He said, this time not as an accusation, but as a statement.

Grindelwald also frowned, and gestured for him to lead the way.

When they returned to Professor Bagshot's personal rooms, they both knelt down in front of her, and Grindelwald put a finger under the woman's nose. He removed it, and said, "She's breathing."

Relief guttered out of him, and he slumped.

Grindelwald stood and peered at the room, as if it was the first time he'd ever seen it. He looked into the fireplace, then ran a finger along the hearth. As he rubbed the dust from his fingers, his eyes trailed down to the end table, where the teapot sat. He opened it up and smelled the contents, then picked up the teapot and flicked his tongue, tasting the cold tea.

"She's decided she needed some rest. There's Sleeping Draught in her tea." Grindelwald said.

Dumbledore sat on his knees, dumbfounded.

How had he been so quick to condemn? When he'd told himself that all he had left was Grindelwald?

Looking back at Professor Bagshot, he saw a small twitch jerk her index finger. He looked up at Grindelwald, begging for forgiveness, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Grindelwald didn't show any hint of hurt or concern.

"I thought… I'm sorry that I accused you." He admitted, even though it shamed him to say.

"Don't worry, I'm used to it," Grindelwald supplied smoothly when he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

It disturbed him that this was both a confession and a sad truth. So, he had not been the first to jump to conclusion, and make the hop, leap, and skip straight to Grindelwald. He'd also not been the first to be wrong about him. He turned to face Grindelwald.

It was like the photo. Grindelwald stared at him, eyes steady and unblinking. These eyes were just cold, like when a house is emptied and the windows are shuttered close, hiding nothing but the emptiness inside.

He wanted to pry those shutters away and force his presence to live inside that dark space, making it his and only his.

So that all Grindelwald would ever see is him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music recommendation! The song is "In Flames" by Dabin.  
> I stumbled across it the other day while I was writing and was SHOOK by how it reminds me of Grindeldore.  
> May or may not write a short one-shot (completely unrelated to this one) about it. 
> 
> If you have any Grindeldore songs / playlists, send them to me please! I need more inspirational music :)
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this next chapter. It was one of my favorite to write.

He had spent the afternoon reading.

Or at least trying to. The task of finishing Medieval Wizards and their Importance became more of a personal goal rather than an informative session. By this point, he'd invested too much time to leave it unfinished. He'd had to put it down several times to ease his eyes. The sleep deprivation was catching up to him. He'd need to sleep soon.

As he read it, one line had stopped him, and he read it over multiple times, to turn it in his mind, like a hog on a spit, examining it from all sides.

_The Black Plague rose from nothing, and disappated into nothing, like a conjurer's trick, or a masterminded plan, and one must wonder, who had the most to gain by wiping out the fear mongerers who drove witches and wizards to the pyres and stakes._

The words teetered between either conspiratorial nonsense or unconventional wisdom. Only the burst of Dumbledore's footsteps had pulled him away from the words, and he'd listened as they became quiet and cautious, though he could hear the creak of floor boards. Those kinds of footsteps only meant one thing.

Suspicion.

As he waited in the silence when Dumbledore's footsteps receded into Bagshot's rooms, he cast an unlocking spell on his door, to alleviate any further suspicions. A locked door would only make him seem guilty, of what, he did not know, but it was likely he'd be the main suspect.

As if by prophecy, Dumbledore burst through his door, and it took every ounce of self control not to sigh.

It was not the first time he would be accused of such things, and it likely would not be the last.

He'd let Dumbledore fuss and then lead him to the crime scene, which had been dull and predictable. He'd spotted his own face in the photo the moment he stepped into the room, he knew what she'd been thinking as she sipped her tea.

Likely, she'd found her old family photo book in her study, thought it a nice break to reminisce on the past, and came across his family's photo. To his knowledge, it was the only photo of his parents together. The rumors and gossip had filled in the rest of his short family history, muddied with adultery, treachery, and suicide.

He'd been barely walking age by the time they vanished from his life, leaving him only a name and money.

Bagshot had been a staunch adversary against his legitimacy, though he would never quite understand why. It had been obvious once he was born that he was not his father's child. His blonde hair and blue eyes had marked him a bastard. Perhaps it was because of him that his mother died. There was talk that his father had been the one to do it. In a fitful rage, they said.

Bagshot, even when he was a child hadn't opened doors to aid him, or comfort him. He had only been here once before due to legal reasons, as his mother had left a secret will for him when she passed, having foreseen her likely demise.

He'd been too young to be put through Wizengamot, but he had suffered through it, and came out the other side, alive.

Bagshot had probably been thinking, what if none of it had happened? What if beautiful Eleanor hadn't married his father? What if she never had him? What would the future have been like? So she added some Sleeping Draught to her tea and let her mind wander into dreamless sleep as the past came back to haunt her.

It did not matter. He did not care what she thought, or what she did with her time. He had his own business to settle as soon as possible.

He pretended nothing had happened between them and left the rooms, the smell turning his stomach. He waited for Dumbledore by the door, and they walked to his own room together. "How was your visit?" He asked, as Dumbledore walked straight for the map on the wall, running his hands across the inky moving clouds and the coloration he had added earlier.

"There wasn't any records of the Fleamont family in the Family Tree Registry." Dumbledore said. "Though I did manage to bring something back."

Dumbledore walked to him slowly, putting a hand in his breast coat pocket, and pulled out a pendant hanging off a long cord. "Here." The boy said, and dropped the necklace into his hand.

He stared at it. Surprised.

It was the runic symbol of the Deathly Hallows. The same one that was carved into the stone facing of Ignotus Peverell's gravestone. It wasn't the Deathly Hallows themselves, but the symbol had always retained a special part in his identity. He'd used it as a basis for his own symbol, since his family had none.

He did not know what to say.

The gesture was too much of a contrast from the earlier incident, when Dumbledore had flown off the broomstick with quick accusation. Dumbledore shoved his hands into his pockets, "Think of it as an apology, you know, for being too rash."

He raised his head and clasped it in both hands, feeling the warmth of it seeping into his cold palms. "I accept." He said, for both the apology and the gift.

It was obviously not an expensive article of jewelry, made with crude metalsmithing, but it was the first gift someone had given him. He held it tight, then pulled the cord open, raising it to his head and letting it fall onto his chest.

The silence made Dumbledore uncomfortable, and the boy quickly turned his heel, returning his attention to the map. "It seems that you had better luck. So Edinburgh? How'd you come by it? Did you ask the church clergyman? Edinburgh would explain why the Family name wasn't in the registry. If I know my history correctly, Scotland has always had their own separate census records and family registry. Though, if they're located in Scotland, how will we find them? It's not like there'll be directions pointing to the family home." Dumbledore rattled on, question after question.

He waited patiently for Dumbledore to realize, just looking at the way he talked. The animated nature of his small gestures, and the almost nervous tick in his pace, like someone's going to cut him off. He wanted to reach out and pet his head, like he would for a barking dog. Everything would be fine, he wanted to say. But he didn't.

Instead, Dumbledore halted his words, and looked over at him, an apology already on his lips, "Sorry."

All he said in response was, "I have my ways."

The answer did not sit well with Dumbledore, and the hauntings of distrust, of malpractice was growing once again in the blue eyes. He did not quell the thoughts. It was better this way.

He stepped closer to the map, "You do bring up a good point. Once we get to Edinburgh, it will be just as difficult to find the Fleamonts as we don't have any convenient contacts that could gain us entry into the registry, considering usually, it requires a family member to open."

He turned to Dumbledore, eyeing him, "How were you planning on accessing the family registry if it had been there?"

Dumbledore shrugged, "I wasn't planning that far ahead."

It did not sit well with him, improvisation. He'd always preferred to have tight control over the facts and plans for every situation. If he wanted Dumbledore to be as mindful as he was, he'd have to teach him. "What kinds of wards were on the boxes?" He asked.

"The lady did warn me that if I tried opening another family's box, I'd been blinded, and if I was injured due to a long fall from the hexes, the Ministry had no fault in it." Dumbledore tapped his fingers against his arm, "She specifically said that it would gouge my eyes out."

"Oculus Evello, probably with dash of blood tied to it to ensure it doesn't harm those of the bloodline."

Dumbledore looked at him, eyes wide, "How do you know?"

He shook his head, "I don't, but I can guess based on what I know of the Dark Arts."

Dumbledore hesitated before asking, "From experience?"

"Sometimes." He wondered how much of Durmstrang's curriculum overlapped with Hogwarts. Typically, this information wasn't shared with anyone who was not a student, alumni, or professor at Durmstrang, but they had expelled him, so he had no loyalty to them any longer. "Durmstrang teaches advanced students how to counter and defend against the Dark Arts, including torture tactics. Eye gouging happens to be one of the more severe types which is difficult to react to once it's triggered, but easy to evade if prepared for ahead of time."

He lifted his wand and made a circular motion, "It's known to laymen in the north as the Blockhead spell. It forms a protective, but imperceivable bubble around a person's head that's permeable to air, and does not burst or tear from contact with sharp objects. It's used mostly by miners and ore hunters, but works well as protection against spells targetting the head."

"It's however, only affective against attacks that target physical aspects of the head, not mental attacks such as Legilimency." He added, as he activated the spell around Dumbledore's head.

He moved his other hand to touch Dumbledore's hair, and the bubble softened, to allow the feeling go unhindered. Then he held up his wand again point blank at Dumbledore's temple and said, "Diffindo."

He felt Dumbledore flinch and duck, but the spell did nothing, as it simply dissipated over the protective bubble.

He dropped his wand, feeling that a single demonstration would be enough for a quick mind. "As I said, it's most effective if applied prior to engagement, rather than as a reaction, since it does take time to form the proper resilience." He ended the charm with a flick of his hand.

"Now you try it." He said.

Dumbledore raised a brow, "You're expecting me to be able to replicate a spell just by seeing it once?"

"Yes. So cast it on me, and we'll see how well you do." He folded his hands behind his back and waited.

Dumbledore lifted his wand warily, and breathed in. He opened his mouth, then stopped, and dropped his hand, "I can't! What if I don't do it properly and end up hurting you?"

He rolled his eyes. Ridiculous. "Fine, if you insist. There's a type of magic that can prevent us from doing fatal damage to each other, accidental or otherwise. If it makes you more comfortable with these lessons, I'd be willing to make an exception."

Dumbledore nodded eagerly, "Yes, that would be perfect!"

"I do warn you, it's very strong magic, and even I don't know a way to undo it once it's been created."

Dumbledore's eyebrow raised, "It doesn't seem likely that I'll ever want to do fatal harm to you, so I think it's safe to do it."

Grindelwald nodded, even though he didn't put as much faith in their relationship as Dumbledore's ideal vision of the future. "As you wish."

He held out his hand, "Hold out yours, and cut into it, like this."

His wand made a thin line across the palm and droplets of blood beaded together.

Dumbledore did as he was told.

"Now raise your hand and hold it against mine." His lifted his cut palm in the air, and Dumbledore's hand met his. Warmth met cold, and their blood mixed. He made the first move, and laced his fingers with Dumbledore's pulling him closer. He recited the words, and Dumbledore echoed them back to him.

The blood pact tied together, from their wrists to their hands, joining their promise to their blood. Their blood shifted and began to glow, spinning together into a silver pendant. "It is done," He says, but it's not much more than a whisper as the pendant falls into his hand.

"Take it." He said.

Dumbledore held out a hand, and the pendant dropped into his hand. He held it up to the light, "It's… beautiful." Grindelwald agreed. It was unexpected that their blood pact would make such a delicate yet elegant piece. Typically, the blood pact forms physical traits based on the blood that binds it. In this case, he suspected the ornate and intricate floral design to be derived from Dumbledore's blood, whereas his had contributed to the stake that ran through the center.

Dumbledore pulled it over his head and let it rest along his neck, and Grindelwald resumed his stance. "Shall we continue?"

The wand lifted, and this time, it did not shake or hesistate.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I rewrote this chapter at least five times by now.   
> Let me know what you think!   
> Also, changed my username, don't be alarmed!

Grindelwald gave gifts the same way he gave information, without embellishment.

His hands no longer shook, and he did not let his nerves get a chance to step in. He waved his wand as he saw Grindelwald do so, then said, " _Galeatus_."

There was no visible indication that the spell had worked, so he gave it a few seconds to let it settle, as Grindelwald said. Then he pointed the tip of his wand at Grindelwald's head, and said, " _Diffindo_."

The green light spilled across the map, but Grindelwald did not flinch. His silver eye had flashed green the moment the spell struck and hadn't closed, nor blinked. Not a single hair on Grindelwald's blonde head had been touched.

He breathed out, long and slow, letting it take all the fear with it. "Thank you," He said, because he felt like he should, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was thankful for. Everything, really.

Grindelwald had nodded then charmed the spell away himself, returning to the map. "It's likely that the Scottish Ministry would have similar wards on their registry, but we'd need to find out in more detail if there's anything more harmful than a Gouging spell."

"More harmful than a Gouging spell?" He couldn't imagine what could be worse.

"I read in a book called Security & Safety in Europe, that In Switzerland, it is common for bank vaults to also include so more… traditional wards, such as curses that severe the hands of thieves, and slice through their Achilles heels to ensure they cannot run. Gringotts was also mentioned in passing. Something about a dragon and a waterfall that washes away any concealment or enchantments." Grindelwald spoke freely and unfettered when discussing facts and information. He liked the way Grindelwald spoke, how his voice sounded. How easy it was to get lost in it.

"However, it's uncommon for houses and homes to have those types of wards, unless they are ancient, or the home of very powerful families. If the Potters moved recently, it is not likely they would be in an ancient homestead, and they seemed to have had a quiet life here."

He blinked a few times, focusing when Grindelwald changed the subject, "If we are to travel as far as Scotland in search of the artifact, I will need to teach you a few more things before we go. I don't want us to be caught unprepared."

"We?"

Grindelwald looked up at him, "Yes, I was under the impression you wanted to help."

He hadn't thought the search would require this kind of travel, but Aberforth was still home on summer break. They could manage for a while. "Right, so, what kind of things are you planning on teaching me? I did rather well at Hogwarts." He wasn't bragging, but with the way Grindelwald had looked at him, he regretted mentioning it.

Grindelwald opened his door, and motioned for him to follow. He trailed into the immense library after Grindelwald. The door closed behind them, and Grindelwald beckoned him to the middle of the space.

This library was Professor Bagshot's pride and glory. It had likely taken many years of paperwork and applications for the Ministry to allow Bagshot to use Extension Charms in her home so close to Muggles. The library towered around them, though the windows remained tiny and proportionate to the outside appearance, with the glass charmed to make the room appear much smaller if any nosy Muggles were to pass by.

Grindelwald approached him slowly, then with a predatory circling, he began to say, "In your current state, you're more of a hindrance than an asset."

His brows furrowed at the comment. Was this seriously the time to bring out all the flaws in him? Dumbledore opened his mouth to add his own commentary, but Grindelwald cut him off before he could speak, "You act like a troll, blundering through the world, without forethought or skill, just using your raw strength to get you through whatever blocks your path."

A troll, so that's what Grindelwald thought of him. He could see it. With all of Grindelwald's cold collection, he probably seemed clumsy and naïve.

Grindelwald continued, his position now behind him, "You give too much away, when there's really no need to, like a dog begging for attention and rolling around doing tricks to please its master."

Now he was a dog. Typically, he didn't mind dogs, but in this context, it definitely was an insult.

"Yet you pity yourself when things don't turn out the way you hoped. You use hope like a lifeline, because you have no plans laid out. Then, like a simple-minded animal, you wake up the next day, not planning for the next."

Those words struck hard, like ax-blows into his torso. This mindless day-to-day boredom, compounded with his entrapment by his family, it all came down to this. He wasn't planning ahead, because all he could do keep afloat is get through each day and hope he could sleep at night. He wrapped his arms around himself, the words opening wounds inside of him. His voice felt rough against his throat and he managed to say, "I know." The words wobbled, and he closed his eyes, "I know."

Grindelwald's walking stopped and when he looked up, Grindelwald was frowning, "You've missed the point entirely. These are all things that can be remedied. Things I can teach you."

The muscles in his forehead creased and he shook his head, not comprehending.

"How are you with chess?" Grindelwald asked.

The non-sequitor shift in the conversation bewildered him, but he replied, "I never lost a game while at Hogwarts."

Grindelwald nodded, "And what of poker?"

"No one wanted to play against me by the time I was a third year."

"What about dueling?"

"I did well." He didn't understand where all of this was headed. These were all things unrelated to the brutally honest description of him that Grindelwald had given.

As if reading his confusion, Grindelwald repositioned himself to stand directly in front of him, clasping his hands, "So, it's not that you are incapable of strategy, subterfuge, or skill."

Dumbledore met Grindelwald's silver eye, and in the light streaming from the windows, as the sun approached evening, his hair gave him a haloed appearance. He seemed fey in this lighting. Grindelwald's voice was frank, and informative, like it had been when speaking about banks and their wards, "You simply don't apply yourself."

"But those are games."

"All games are meant to teach something." Grindelwald easily replied, then with a curl of his finger, coaxed a book off the shelf and guided it into the space between them.

"What do you know of how spells are created?" Grindelwald asked.

He knew only that Hogwarts did not cultivate a welcome environment for independent spell crafting. "It's dangerous."

The book hovered in front of him, "All spells are dangerous, but why?"

"All spell are dangerous when they aren't cast properly."

"And what attributes determine whether it's cast properly?"

He recited the droning monotonous voice of his Charms Professor, "Wand movement, incantation, concentration, and intention."

"Do they? Look at the book." Grindelwald shifted his hand position and the book's pages began fluttering, cascading from left to right, then right to left, fanning his face a bit.

He stepped forward to read what book Grindelwald had picked out, but the book slipped away, yanked by an invisible thread, "No, look at the book." The book spun and then began swaying from side to side.

He let out a breath of frustration, and folded his arms, stepping back, "I can't read it, if you keep doing that."

"That's because I don't want you to read it. Look at it." Grindelwald deliberately made a motion with his hand that lifted the book into the air, high above them, flying like an owl.

What was he supposed to look at? It was just a book. Grindelwald was controlling it probably with some form of Levitation spell. He paused, then looked at Grindelwald's hands. "You're not using your wand."

"And?"

"And… you didn't say an incantation when you pulled it off the shelf."

Grindelwald finally granted him a nod, "Which means?"

"If there's enough concentration and intention, the first two are unnecessary."

The fingers snapped, and the book clamped shut, then fell straight down onto the rugged floor with a thud. "Good, now your turn."

"My turn?" He pointed to his own chest.

Grindelwald nodded, "Yes. Try it."

He shook his head, but he put out a hand and tried to grasp the book through the air with willpower alone. Nothing. Not even a tremble. He tried again, straining as he pushed muscle tension through his arm. Zilch.

Grindelwald stepped closer to his side, pushing his hand down and grabbing him by the elbow. He could smell the musk emanating off of Grindelwald, which gave his heart beat a nervous flutter. Grindelwald let him go, "Relax, close your eyes and imagine it first."

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was his hand against Grindelwald's smooth, white chest, feeling the beat of his heart under his palm, the smell of freshly turned earth filling his mind. He opened his eyes again to chase the vision out of his mind. Shaking his head, he turned to Grindelwald, "I can't focus."

"You can. You just don't want to."

He pulled away, trying to put some distance between Grindelwald, and the beginnings of arousal. "It's not that simple. There's a reason why people use words and wands to control spells. It's advanced and difficult." The excuses stack on top of each other, making a shoddy wall.

Grindelwald deflected it sharply, "Then, how is it that you're able to Disapparate and Apparate, without words, wand, or trace?"

He opened his mouth to say, it's different. He'd been raised to hone his skills with Apparation, just in case something went wrong with Ariana. Then he closed his mouth. He could see where this was going. It was just a skill to practice, and he'd already practiced it, just with a slightly different spell.

When he Disapparated, it was a moment of pure focus, where he imagined every detail of the journey and his destination, a split second before his magic made thought into reality.

Grindelwald watched him patiently, his silver eye focused on him, and he almost could sense his presence prodding at his mind, gently caressing his thoughts and memories.

He tried again, closing his eyes and focusing on the book, the straight lines, the pages, the texture on the cover, the binding how it was slightly loose, and the pages were stuck crooked in some areas. He imagined it rising off the rug, the dust motes flowing around it as it lifted and disturbed the air. The book would feel heavy, but not so much that it's impossible to lift. It would balance somewhere towards the binding, since the glue added a bit more weight to that side.

"That's it." He heard Grindelwald saying.

He opened his eyes and his hands were held out in front of him, just level with the ground, relaxed, and the book floated in front of him, as flat as if it were on a desk, steady. Then, the spell broke, the pages fluttering as it fell to the ground, the magic gone.

Grindelwald bent down to reposition the book on the floor. "You have such ease with complex spells, yet a simple Levitation spell presents trouble. Perhaps we should try one slightly more difficult, and work our way backwards." He was starting to understand how Grindelwald spoke. The lack of intonation indicating passage of information, rather than emotion or subversive intent.

His stomach growled at the thought he'd be trapped here for Merlin knows how long, "Or, maybe it's because we haven't had anything to eat since morning?"

Grindelwald looked up at him from the floor, then straightened, dusting his clothes. "It… slipped my mind."

Grindelwald's lack of interest in basic human needs both concerned and puzzled him. Almost like he'd transcended all human needs into a condensed form of control and capability. "Are you even human?" The thought rose suddenly. It would explain so much.

A single brow raised at the question, mutely ridiculing him for his absurdity. Dumbledore shook his head, "Ah, sorry, right, think before you speak. Bad habits break hard, blundering troll that I am."

Grindelwald pressed his lips together, then looked away, "I am human." The words were even more a question than his had been, even though Grindelwald said it without intonation or expression.

He reached out, grabbing onto Grindelwald's wrist, "I didn't mean it as an insult." Grindelwald stood still, looking into his eyes and into his mind. With a gentle push, he let Grindelwald see that it wasn't a lie, or an evasion of truth. He hadn't, honest.

"You think I'm fey?" Grindelwald said, picking up on the trace thoughts he'd had.

"Or maybe Veela, now that I think about it." That earned him another incredulous, and beautiful arch of a brow, which made his stomach flip uncomfortably from excitement. "It's just that, sometimes you have that air about you like you're not cut from the same fabric as me, or anyone else. Like you're just a visitor from another plane, and this is all temporary for you."

"Do… I?" For a second, Grindelwald's eyes were distant and he could see inside the windows of that empty house. Alone, Grindelwald stood as an island in the emptiness. It explained the detachment, the lack of interest in bonds, and the easy usage of manipulation. All anyone sees is the outside, that Grindelwald wants to be left alone, but what they don't see is that Grindelwald believes he is ultimately alone, so it doesn't matter what anyone else does.

It hit him like an arrow into his throat, choking him, and shocking him all at once.

He twisted his hand into Grindelwald's and pulled it close to his chest, "Whether or not you want to change it, we are soulmates, and that of all things, is not temporary." His heart beat with a pounding fury, like if he didn't do his damned best to get this point across, he'd never catch Grindelwald again.

Courage, and the need to show the truth, granted his actions safe passage as he pressed his lips against the jagged, hewn scars on Gellert's wrist. "Even if you try to carve me out, I'll still be here." The skin was rough against his lips, and cold, so he warmed them with his breath. Giving Gellert the warmth he needed to be here, now, in the present.

Gellert, with all his otherworldly stillness, did not breathe for some time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to get this chapter out, because I had some doubts about where I was taking the plot, and how I wanted the relationship to unfold. I think I had to scrap at least 10k words worth of chapters because it didn't feel right. 
> 
> Hope you still enjoy and let me know what you think!  
> Thank you all for your support and comments, it was the reason why I didn't simply stop and quit.  
> Didn't want to leave you all hanging.

All it had taken was a single second for Dumbledore to see the single cracked window of time, and take his opportunity to swoop in to make a roost inside his chest. 

The pressure in his lungs pushed against his ribs, and finally, remembering what they were there for, breathed out slowly. He had not been expecting this attack. Had not been able to foresee it, and it hit him hard. More than a punch, it had knocked out what air he had, and closed up the passage in his throat. 

They were the same, perhaps two different uses of the same tool. As quickly and as poignantly as he could pinpoint a person's weaknesses, Dumbledore could sense Grindelwald's, and in turn, they both knew what to do with it. He prefer to wield it as a weapon, hanging around a person's neck until needed, whereas Dumbledore used it for something far more difficult. Peace. 

"Let's… get you some food." He said at last. 

The egg salad had been cut into dainty sandwiches, likely by Bagshot, during the day, and kept wrapped in a protective bundle. They brought it back to the library to continue their lessons, eating on the rug on the floor, not bothering to pull out the chairs at the large table at the far end of the room. 

"So why train me to use magic without words or my wand?" Dumbledore asked between massive bites of his meal. 

Grindelwald put his sandwich back onto the plate, brushing the crumbs off his leg. It tasted sweet, he suspected the pickles were the culprits, but it was true, they hadn't eaten all day, so he had to gain nutrients somehow. "Words give away your intent, and wands waste time. If you can conduct spells without words and a wand, the opponent will not know what to expect or how to counter it until it's too late." 

Dumbledore nodded as he chewed through another bite, hiding his mouth from view with his hand, "But you don't always do silent, wandless spells." 

"You're not my opponent." He replied. Yet. 

Dumbledore swallowed his food, nodding his head slowly, as if in understanding, then he said, "Fair enough, but I don't like it. It seems… Slytherin." Dumbledore's mouth twisted. 

"Slytherin?" What did slithering have anything to do with their discussion? Unless this was Dumbledore's strange way of calling him a snake? 

Dumbledore ducked his head, wiping the crumbs off his shirt, "Sorry, my apologies, I forgot you didn't attend Hogwarts. Do you have houses at Durmstrang?" 

He shook his head, even though they weren't supposed to give any answer to those kinds of questions about Durmstrang. They had no power over him. 

"At Hogwarts, we have four houses, and when you're welcomed to the school, a hat sorts you into what house you should belong in based on your qualities." 

Grindelwald nodded slowly, biting into his sandwich again, forcing his mouth to chew it. Bizarre to let a hat determine your future, but there have been stranger ways to chose one's future. 

Dumbledore stuck out his index finger, "There's Gryffindor, which values bravery, daring, nerve, and chivalry," he lifted the next, "Ravenclaw, the house of intelligence, knowledge, and wit." 

"Seems like the house of Reason, in comparison to Gryffindor." He remarked.

Dumbledore frowned, but continued. "Hufflepuffs, who value hard work, dedication, patience, loyalty, and fair play…"

Then Dumbledore folded his hands, putting them down, "Lastly, Slytherin, the house of ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness. They will use any means to achieve their end."

Grindelwald finally swallowed the last bite of his half sandwich, "Is that a bad thing?" He straightened his back. 

"Yes! I mean, no, not really, but yes in a way! Gryffindor and Slytherin have always been rivals and I just hate the way they seem to only care about themselves." Dumbledore picked up his second sandwich, shoving it into his mouth. 

"Which house do you think I would belong to if I went to Hogwarts?" Grindelwald asked, hoping he would not hear what he expected. 

Dumbledore paused his chewing, then said, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're the archetypal Slytherin." 

He shouldn't be disappointed, but he was foolishly. "Am I? I was rather thinking I fit with Ravenclaw better." It clawed at him. He couldn't run away from it, no matter where he went or who it was. He would always be painted the villain. He pushed his plate to Dumbledore, who'd finished both his sandwiches. 

"Feel free to finish this for me." He stood up, stretching his legs.

"You sure? You only ate half of it." 

He nodded, "It's fine. I don't have much of an appetite anyways." 

Dumbledore frowned, "You haven't eaten all day, and you only had a bit during breakfast. Are you sure?"

"I've gone longer without." 

When he looked down at Dumbledore, dark brows were knitted together, and there was a deep frown in his mouth. "Doesn't it bother you?" 

Clearly, his eating habits were upsetting Dumbledore. Why did it matter whether he ate less or not? It's not like he stole from other children to feed himself, which would be far worse in his opinion, "I've learned to ignore hunger." 

"Why?" Dumbledore asked him with his full attention focused on him. It was like staring straight into the sun, without shade in sight. 

Why else? It was too frequent not to. His childhood wasn't something he tried to dwell on for too long, or too often. It had happened, and he got through it. End of story. Nothing to mourn or reminisce about. 

"It's in the past, leave it." They didn't have time to waste on things like this. Dumbledore needed guidance, and it wasn't going to happen all on it's own. 

"But--"

"Leave it. If you're done eating, get up, and let's continue." He folded his arms across his chest, and Dumbledore ate the rest of the sandwich, then stood up onto his two feet.

Through a mouthful of food, he said, "Okay, ready." 

He waited for Dumbledore to finish chewing and swallowing the food. "Spells, against popular belief, are fairly easy to create, but to get the spell to do exactly as you want, consistently, for every individual, that's what makes them difficult to craft." He swept his hand across and fog began to roll out around them, carpeting the floors, the piles of books. It crept up along the bookshelves rising like a poltergeist's waves. 

"But it's just one method of harnessing magic. It is by far the easiest to control because it is predefined by the practitioners who have tested it and refined it to be used by anyone." The fog continued to rise, at the knees now. 

"Magic stems from the body, not words or wands. If you can control yourself, and the power within, you can do anything as long as you can imagine it." Around them, the fog enveloped the bookshelves, blocking them entirely from view. They were two islands in the fog now, with only the two of them in sight. 

He stepped backwards, careful of the books and desks he knew were behind him, until he could no longer see Dumbledore. The fog's density increased until he knew that if he were to raise his hand, he would not be able to see it. 

"Can you see me?" He asked into the white abyss. 

"No…" Came the response, though it was quiet and strained. 

"Without moving, or using your wand, or saying anything, clear this fog. I will know if you do any of those three things." He folded his arms, and sat against the desk behind him.

"How?" Dumbledore asked, voice pitched with worry. 

"Think." He replied.


	21. Chapter 21

His fears manifested around him, slowly creeping up his legs and up his body.

Every breath he took, he sucked in with shallow lungs, each one becoming shorter and harder to hold onto. Fog obscured the world around him, so thick, it suffocated him. It was like being drowned and buried alive all at the same time.

He swiped his hands in the air, trying to clear at least the space in front of him. He could not see his hands, even as he fanned the fog, and the panic began to creep up in his throat. He couldn't see anything but the grey haze.

He stepped forward, to get closer to Grindelwald, to tell him this was impossible. That he couldn't fight against his own fears. He whimpered as his foot stubbed a book.

"Without moving." Grindelwald's voice felt like it was next to his ears, he flinched and shut his eyes. The vast unknown sprawled before him in thick clouds began to pulse, the edges darkening, as he struggled to breathe. The claustrophobia was curling it's fingers around his throat.

"Grindelwald… I can't do this." He said with gritted teeth, pushing the words past the choking fear. "I can't." Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the fog pressing in on him like a phantom blanket. "I can't.." His breath caught in his throat.

_Please. Make it stop._

_Please._

The voice echoed in his ears again, ringing louder than it should, too close, "You can do this." He ducked from the proximity of the echo, surrounding his head. A terrible stabbing spike flew from his chest in tympanic beats through his body, filling his ears with war drums. His blood ran cold, and his limbs shook.

_Please. Please. Please!_

_Make it stop._

He grabbed his chest, and his eyes searched around for anything. Anything to focus on.

"Please… I can't," His voice strained, from the effort of speaking around the lancing alarms blocking his lungs. "I'm … claustrophobic. Please." He just wanted to scream.

The voice settled against his shoulder, whispering, "It is only fog. You can clear it."

He screwed his eyes shut and inhaled, gasping for breathe. He pushed air out of his lungs again, and it rattled inside his chest. He could feel the floor beneath him, but his eyes, whether closed or open, saw nothing but white.

"Please, Grindelwald… make it stop. I can't…"

There was no response, and in this fog, it was like he was completely alone. Trapped. Buried alive in the fog.

He screamed.

His lung burned as he sound tore out of his mouth, ringing in his ears. He curled his shoulders around him, pulling his head down with his hands, pulling at his hair. It hurt, but it hurt less than the feeling of being trapped.

"Clear the fog and be free, Albus!" The voice was like a bell, ringing sweet inside his head from a distance, calling him home.

He imagined Grindelwald, in his dark suit, his long coat, his half hidden smile, the mess of wild fey hair, and the silver eye look at him. The sun shining behind him as the last of the days rays fell beneath the gray horizon, spilling silver around the edges of his face and hair.  
He imagined pushing his way through the fog, splitting it with wind so powerful, that nothing would creep in around him again.

It was then, that he noticed the wind catching his clothing, tugging at his hair, whipping around his face. When he opened his eyes, there was a clear path across the room, a single tunnel through the grey.

At the end of it, Grindelwald stood, smiling, the sun at his back, glimmering like a fey creature in a dark world.

He let the tunnel expand then explode, sending books flying, pages tearing, even the chairs tipped backwards and clattered. The wind tore through the fog, ripping it and chasing it away. When the wind finally died down, and he could see the entirety of the room again, he felt the energy of adrenaline fail him, crashing hard on his shoulders.

His knees weakened, and he collapsed, but he never quite hit the ground.

Grindelwald was approaching fast, his hand outstretched, and he was slowly lowered, comfortably sitting on the ground, his hands limp on the ground next to him. With his other hand, he was clearing the explosion of the tornado he'd conjured, putting ripped pages back into their covers, straightening the piles, and resetting the library as if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn't put Albus through hell.

He turned his eyes to Grindelwald, tears hot against his cheeks. Anger bloomed where the fear had left a gaping void in his chest. He spat out the words, "You knew…" He wanted to puke out his food, his head felt light, like there was too much air, and his body was cold. Frigid. "You knew I was claustrophobic, and you…" He couldn't say it. His heart still hammered against his ribs, each heart beat an ache inside his chest from the experience.

Grindelwald did not touch him, but knelt beside him, "Yes."

He tore his eyes away from Grindelwald's silver eye, which stared at him, void of any sympathy and without blinking. Right now, he couldn’t stand it. He felt like he'd been stripped raw from the inside, each layer flayed away from standing in that fog. He fisted his hands against his pants, the force of the grip so harsh that it made his nails dig into his palms through the fabric. The muscles of his body still hadn't stopped trembling. He couldn't stop it. He could barely hold his head up. His mind was spinning, unable to focus on anything around him, other than the shock of the experience.

For the second time, Grindelwald had violated his trust.

The first when Grindelwald had stolen the name from him, and now, by forcing him into his fears. What was worse, Grindelwald did not show even a drop of remorse for putting him through such pain.

If it had been just the words, the ones that had torn him apart, breaking down every flaw he knew he had, he could stomach it. But this, this was different. He grabbed the pendant around his neck, ripped it off and threw it across the room. It was a cheap lie. It hadn't prevented Grindelwald from hurting him. All it did was make him fall for this awful trap.

"Don't come near me." He said at last, each syllable grating against his torn throat.

Grindelwald didn't move.

"I don't know what you were trying to teach me with all that, but it was wrong." He pushed the words out, even as his voice wobbled, and fresh tears spilled onto his cheeks. "That went too far."

"I'm sorry." Grindelwald said, and he snapped his head up, glaring.

"Are you?" He questioned, fierce with his tone, unable to hold back the fangs in his words.

Grindelwald shifted, putting his hands on his knees, like he was repenting, "I did what I thought necessary." Of course. Someone like Grindelwald wouldn't understand the torture of being dragged into their worst nightmare.

Anger gave him renewed strength and he rose to his feet, legs shaking under him, like a newborn colt. "Putting me through my worst fear is necessary? What does that have anything to do with finding some fabled artifact that we don't even know is real?" He wasn't yelling, more of a harsh whisper, since his lungs couldn't quite fill up properly, but it caught Grindelwald's attention.

"I did it because you needed a push." Grindelwald didn't move from his spot on the ground, nor his position.

He shook his head, "No, that's not what that was about. You just wanted another way to hurt me, now that you can't do me physical damage."

Grindelwald looked up at him at that, eyes flashing, though he didn't know what. "If that's how you want to look at it, feel free." Grindelwald spoke with a monotone flatness, and his eyes closed, turning his head away.

"If not that, then why?" He wanted to sit down, no, lie down and sleep for a century. Everything Grindelwald did was counter-intuitive to him.

Grindelwald shrugged, turning back to him with the dead look he bore like a favorite mask, "No, you're right. I did it to hurt you." The admission was more of a lie than anything else Grindelwald could have said.

It needled him, that Grindelwald would accept being the villain, rather than defend his reasons. So quickly too.

"I'm tired of your games, Grindelwald. Just tell me why you used my fears against me." He folded his arms over his chest, to hold himself together and prepare for the answer.

The silence grew as did the darkness as the last light of sunset flickered out, leaving them in a twilight gloom.

"You are afraid." Grindelwald's words were slow and measured. "Of the future, of being trapped, of… yourself."

He frowned. He wasn't afraid of himself.

"But you do not have to fear anything." When Grindelwald's silver eye met his gaze, his anger drained away from him, leaking away from his heels.

His forehead creased with confusion, "Why?"

Grindelwald did not answer his question, but he continued, "Whoever taught you fear, feared you. Feared what you could do."

He shook his head, "Why would they fear me? I'm nothing special."

Grindelwald stood at that, stepping forward, with his hands out, "That's the thing! That's what they want you to believe."

"Who?"

A hand swiped the air, "Everyone around you. The people who taught you about magic. The people who raised you to be the person you are now. They want you to be constrained by the same boundaries that they are."

It wasn't making sense. None of this was making sense. He shook his head, "Not everyone's like you Grindelwald. There are people out there without hidden motives."

"You're wrong. Everyone has hidden motives, some hide them better than others, and some just lie enough to themselves to think otherwise."

"So what does it have to do with me? Why would they want to trick me?" His head hurt and he wanted to lie down. He wanted to sleep.

Grindelwald closed the distance between then, and with the slightest touch of his fingertips, he lifted Dumbledore's head to look into his unmatched eyes. "Because, you are more powerful than they ever will be."

His heart fluttered wildly at the touch, rather than the words. "But what does that have to do with the fog?" He could feel the warmth of Grindelwald's body at this proximity. He couldn't resist the attraction he felt, even after all that he went through.

"You needed to free yourself from your fears. Just like the fog, they can be cleared away." Grindelwald's hand rose to rest on his shoulder, and he shuddered at the warmth seeping through the thin shirt. "I knew you could." There was no lie in those words, and he sighed.

Once again, he'd jump to conclusions too fast, without thinking. Grindelwald was right. He was a troll, blundering through everything.

He breathed in deeply, steadying his heart beat and the shaking of his limbs. When his heart finally slowed, and he could relax his hands again, he remembered how he'd gotten through it. It had been the words Grindelwald had said. Or rather, just one word.

"You called me Albus." When he looked at Grindelwald, he caught a fleeting expression, that dazed him. If it had been anyone else, he would not have noticed, but it had been so stark and different than Grindelwald's typical stoic frigidity, that it gleamed like a jewel in sunlight. On anyone else's face, in anyone else's eyes, he would have called it love.

He dared not imagine it so for Grindelwald.

Replaced by the impenetrable wall, Grindelwald turned away, "Did I?"

He did not push the matter. He'd heard it, and that's all that mattered. He'd seen it, and that's all that mattered too.

The tremors had not left his body, and he could not move from his spot on the ground. "It seems, I'm rather exhausted from all this. Let's continue tomorrow."

Grindelwald's hand slipped away from his shoulder, and along with it, the warmth. He shivered.

"I'm sorry." Grindelwald said, again, but so softly he almost hadn't heard.

"For what?" Dumbledore asked, but there was no chance to hear Grindelwald's response, because the library door swung open with a creak.

"Oh, there you two are." Professor Bagshot said, poking her head in.

He smiled at Professor Bagshot, "Hello, Professor."

The elderly lady beckoned Dumbledore over, and pushed her glasses up her nose. "Albus, you look horrendous. Are you feeling ill?" She put a hand against his forehead, "My dear, you're freezing."

"I'm fine." He heard himself saying, even though his hands still hadn't stopped shaking, and it felt like every muscle in his body had been sapped by a vampiric fog.

"Can't have you getting ill. Why don't you stay here the night. The other guest bedroom has a nice fireplace. I'll get you something hot to drink. It'll be good for you." She patted his hand, and went to find some tea for him.

When she left, he turned his head to Grindelwald, who simply stood, his body forcibly giving the impression it was relaxed, even though the sharp line across his shoulders said otherwise. "I…" He began to say, but stopped himself when Grindelwald's shoulders sagged, and whatever tension had been holding him up, seemed to slide away.

Now that he saw his face, a little better now that it wasn't backlit by the setting sun, Grindelwald looked exhausted. "I don't have to stay. I can go home… if that's what you'd prefer. I know that you don't exactly want me here."

Unexpectedly, Grindelwald shook his head, and said, "She's right, we can't have you getting ill."

His jaw slackened, and the silver eye met his gaze, as he said, "You sure?"

"Stay."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you've all been well!   
> I'm here with another chapter, enjoy!

He was dancing with fire tied to his tongue and hands.

Dumbledore had reacted the way he wanted, spinning and twirling around like a marionette, pulled by his strings.

Telling Dumbledore the truth about his power had been necessary, in order to eradicate those pits and abscesses of fear in Dumbledore's mind. The fear obstructed Dumbledore's ability to truly learn. The weeds needed to be cleared to provide a clear path of teaching, without stumbling or fumbling. They didn't have time for such luxuries.

He didn't care that Dumbledore was more powerful than he was.

It didn't matter in the end, if they couldn't find the cloak and free him.

Yet, if the puppeteer begins to feel swayed by the puppet, who was really in control?

In the blanket of fog, he'd felt it in his chest, as lucid and vibrant as one of his dreams, hammering at his ribs like an imprisoned beast, thrashing about to get free. He knew it was not his own. The feeling had battered against him, throwing him into a dangerous rocking between indifference and succumbing to all the other feelings that were growing in his chest.

He'd been dangerously close to folding his cards when his hand had connected with Dumbledore's shoulder, feeling the tremors of every muscle under his palm, and knowing he was the cause. He had been sorry about it.

And he was sorry, he'd been truthful.

But the pain of this memory would fade, and in the end, it would work to his favor, when he'd have to leave Dumbledore behind.

It was for the best.

A knock came from the door, and he looked up from his writing, to see Dumbledore's head pop into his room.

"Come in." He said, putting his quill down.

Dumbledore came to sit on his bed, considering there was nothing except his own chair for the boy to sit on. "I know you asked me to stay, but… I really do think I should head home. I have some… things I need to take care of." The need for approval leaked from Dumbledore's expression.

He nodded, "You don't need my permission. Feel free to do as you please."

"But, I do want to say thank you. For even agreeing to the suggestion." Dumbledore's eyes held his, then flickered to the side, running out of what little courage he'd had.

"It's best you rest." He admitted.

Dumbledore's eyes lifted to meet his, and a slow smile split the boy's face with a bright radiance, "I'll see you tomorrow then? Bright and early?"

He nodded, and Dumbledore rose from the bed, still grinning and walked to the door. "Good night, Gellert," he said, then darted out the door.

The silence that followed swallowed him whole, as his name rang inside his ears. Is this what Albus had felt when he'd said his name? A shiver ran down his back, too fast for him to control, and too obvious for him to ignore. He ran a hand against his eyes, rubbing them. He'd been awake for far too long, that's all.

He'd sleep, and he'd be back to his usual self.

So he tried.

There had been plenty of Sleeping Draught in the bathroom cabinet, once he knew where to look. The liquid sloshed unhappily as he uncorked it. It smelled slightly like grapes, and he knew from experience, it would be far too sweet for his tongue, but he upended the entire contents into his mouth, grimacing past the saccharine taste filling his mouth.

Tossing the empty bottle of Sleeping Draught to the floor, he fell onto the bed, not bothering to pull off the covers, or attempt to change his clothes. If he woke, the covers would only make things worse. If he did do something worse, then he would need every second he had to leave immediately.

When he woke, his eyes burst open, his lungs gasping.

He could not see, he could not feel, he only burned like lava had been poured into him, and his skin was splitting into obsidian. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't… he tried to grab at whatever was crushing his windpipe, but his hands and arms wouldn't move.

He was paralyzed.

He tried twisting his head, but it stayed fixated, trapped in the night terror. His eyes roamed frantically, but all around him was darkness. Whipping, cracking darkness.

He screamed with all the force of his will, not because he was afraid, but because it was the only way out.

The first burst of sound shook him from the vision, then he wrenched his arms free of the paralysis, wand flinging into his hand. Then he dug the tip into the flesh of his thigh and screamed, " _Baubilious_!" A jolt of lightning traveled up his body, splitting him away from the visceral choke hold of the nightmare.

Panting, his eyes finally opened and he saw the small sliver of light passing under the dark curtains. Morning. He shuddered as he pushed himself up off the bed, and winced at the burn mark on his pants. It had shredded most of the thigh area and he could see the jagged welts where the lightning passed under his skin.

Pain throbbed as he pulled off his vest. Then peeled back his shirt, then very carefully, with a hiss, his pants. He was sweating as his shaking hands undid the front of his pants. He tipped his head back with a gritted growl, then tried to stand.

It was a mistake.

The howl that broke from his lips choked out of him, as the pain ricocheted up his leg and into his spine. His knee buckled and he took to the ground hard.

As he did so, the door swung open and Dumbledore stood panting, wand in hand, outstretched to attack. When he saw him on the floor, Dumbledore was gathering him up, first helping him onto his back, and then looking down at his torn pant leg, and the blistering skin underneath. Then up at his face, the color draining. "Gellert?" If he weren't in so much pain, he would have stared at Dumbledore in shock.

Dumbledore hadn't noticed what he'd said. Now was not the time to discuss it.

Through the haze, twisting from the pain, he said to Dumbledore, "Help me."

Dumbledore's hands were as shaky as his had been when they grabbed the hem and pulled. He put his fist into his mouth and bit down, choking back the scream that broke at his throat. His leg was on fire but it was free, when Dumbledore slipped them off his feet.

He raised a hand when Dumbledore went to tend to the wound. "Don't." The word was more a grunt than an articulate command, but Dumbledore backed off.

Sitting up, he put the wand to his knee and said with an unsteady breath, " _Novisana_." The tendrils reversed, seemingly crawling back away, and he shut his eyes, breathing hard out of his nose, he moved the wand to his hip and said again, " _Novisana_ ," and the tendrils from the top retreated. He shook from the tension of his body, experiencing the lightning in reverse.

Then one last time, he hovered over the epicenter, and said, " _Novisana_." It tore out of him like a tooth. A visceral yank and then just the ache where the pain had been. His skin was unmarred and back to its original state, as if nothing happened. He rose to his feet, casting a quick mending charm on his pants.

He sat back down on the bed, shivering from the sheen of sweat cooling his body rapidly.

Dumbledore sat down next to him, hands clenched against his thighs. He was shaking. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

The answer would be no, if he had the energy to say so. Instead, he kept breathing, in and out, trying not to unravel into a mindless mess.

A hand came to rest on his thigh, warm and comforting, "I just want to know why you hurt yourself."

He was not at peak performance, so all he said was, "It's fine." He didn't have the energy to push the hand away, it felt too much like an anchor, and if it left, he'd simply float away, never to touch down again.

Dumbledore got up off the bed and knelt down in front of him, forcing their eyes to meet. Dumbledore kept a hand at his thigh, as if knowing what it would to do him if he removed it, "You're leg was struck by lightning. It could have killed you."

"You're very observant." Even as a witty retort, it fell flat by the lack of impact in his voice. There must be a way to get Dumbledore not to care. He just couldn't think of it right now. The nightmare and the rude awakening had taken a toll on him.

When Dumbledore looked at him, he was fixated by the blue of Dumbledore's eyes, unable to pull himself away from it in this weakened state. Dumbledore patiently said, "Tell me the truth. Why are you casting life-threatening spells on yourself?"

A compulsion tugged at his tongue, "Like I said, I have an unpleasant relationship with sleep."

"That's part of the truth. What about the rest?"

Dumbledore was learning. Faster than he'd been estimating. Dumbledore's eyes were soft, understanding and simply, open. "I want to know why the first thing you do after waking up is hurt yourself."

"I've told you." He repeats, this time stubbornly, "Sleep is unpleasant for me."

Dumbledore leaned forward, putting his head on his knee. "Please…" When the copper head lifted, his eyes were glassy, like tears were on the verge of spilling. He looked pained, and pleading. "Will you tell me the truth?"

In a stronger mental state, he would have resisted harder, but he was so tired right now, "I needed to wake myself up. It's the only way."

"I…" Dumbledore tilted his head, "I don't understand. Why can't you just wake up? They are only dreams."

He laughed in his throat, bitter and stale against the back of teeth, "I wish."

The hands on his thighs ran along the area where the lightning had ripped through his nerves. It still tingled with phantom pain, even though he'd removed the trace of the lightning spell. "What is it like for you when you sleep?"

"It's painful, and sometimes, when I think I'm awake, I’m just in another dream and it's worse than the last because I can't get out of it." The words flowed out of him and he couldn't stop, because this was the first time he's told anyone, and possibly the only person who might give a damn.

"If I don't wake myself, it's dangerous." He said.

Dumbledore rubbed his thumb into his thigh, soft and gentle, just moving it in gentle circles. It was not uncomfortable. Almost could be pleasant if he didn't think about it. "For who?" Dumbledore asked.

"For everyone else."


	23. Chapter 23

The darkness under Gellert's eyes had deepened in the time they spent apart. 

His dreams had been quite the opposite. Possibly the most delightful dream he's had in weeks. He could still feel the warmth as his hand ran along a smooth white chest, and he could hear the soft breathing by his ear. Around him, there had been a white fog, but it did not bother him. In his dream, Gellert called him Albus. He'd been submissive, and expressive. 

When he woke, he'd been happy, almost drunk from it. He hadn't fought with Aberforth while making breakfast. He had put out the candy on the table for Ariana, making sure there was enough for Aberforth as well. He'd even tossed some grain to the goats. 

He sat against his heels, aware how he must look, positioned this way between Gellert's legs, his hands on his thighs. "Tell me what happens." 

Gellert's silver eye looked down at him, dead, colorless and impassible. "No." 

He pushed, a thumb digging into Gellert's tender thigh muscle, "Tell me." 

The eye flickered to the point where his thumb had pressed, and the pause gave him enough time to spread his palms and slid them fractionally up the corded thighs. He made sure to pass over the tender skin where lightning had just passed, keeping his touch gentle, "I believe you, you know, and I won't judge you for it. No matter what it is." 

Gellert took the offer, but shifted away from his touch, so that he had no choice but to let go of those thick thighs, and back away as Gellert stood. Gellert moved slowly, with a limp, and pushed himself towards the desk, where he collapsed into the chair. He still wore no clothes, so he looked like a marble statue cut to fit the chair with an artful woe. He looked like a silver fey prince. 

His fey prince. 

With a hand running across tired eyes, Gellert began to speak, "It's hard to explain." He inhaled sharply, then let out the breath slowly, "My dreams are… violent." The grimace indicated that was the euphemistic term for it. "When they first started, I didn't know they were dreams." 

"I thought… I thought they were real." Gellert's voice was tight, and strained as he spoke, "So I fought. I fought to stay alive." 

The other hand raised to cover the remainder of Gellert's pale face, but his words were unobstructed, "But it turns out, my body hadn't been asleep, and if anyone tried to wake me…" The words trailed into a silence that stretched, on and on, like that's where it would end. 

But then Gellert continued, "I studied everything there is to know about spells, potions, and even experimented with creatures to find a cure, but nothing. Nothing helped, except one thing." 

Gellert lowered his hands, staring straight ahead of him into the empty air. A shiver ran down Albus' spine from the darkness that emanated off the white body like a black glow, "The human mind is delicate, hence why it requires restful periods, however, as a method of survival, there are certain defense mechanisms that can be activated while unconscious." 

It was like Gellert was talking about someone else, something else, while maintaining his surgical and sterile tone of voice, rather than himself. "The primitive instinct to avoid danger will force the mind to be awake and fully alert. Water, often linked with the danger of drowning, may wake the individual. Fire or the lack of oxygen may also help to wake the individual, but it is a slow process, oftentimes being unsuccessful. However, one thing always wakes the human brain. Pain." 

Gellert's silver eye slowly slid to turn to him, locking him into place, his limbs shaking from the haunting expression, "So I learned how to cast magic without words or wand, just in case I couldn't call my wand in my sleep." 

Albus rocked and leaned back onto the edge of the rumpled bed from shock. Of all the reasons why Gellert might have been adept at wandless and wordless magic, he could not have fathomed this in a hundred years. He doubted anyone could have. For all the darkness that shrouded Gellert's persona, underneath all those icy layers was the desire to protect others, even if it meant causing himself harm. Perhaps the walls and ice had not been to protect Gellert, but those around him. 

"I…" His voice was weak, barely escaping his throat. 

The anger that flashed in Gellert's eyes burned bright like a match struck and every defensive wall he had was thrown up around him again. Albus instinctively reached out with a hand, "No! I didn't … no, I mean, I wasn't expecting it. I was just surprised is all. I still believe you."

The walls wavered, and Gellert squinted at him, "Surprised by what." 

"You." He breathed out with the last of the air in his lungs. He couldn't seem to figure out how to inhale again. 

How many others had made the mistake of seeing Gellert as a monster, because they didn't know any better? "It's not the typical reason why someone might want to learn wandless or wordless magic."

"What's the typical reason." Gellert's voice was still deadpan, and his hands were relaxed in front of him, overlapping each other, but every angle of his body expressed tension. 

He shrugged his shoulders, "A show of power?" 

Gellert scoffed, looking away from him with a curl at his upper lip, "How juvenile." 

He frowned, "Don't you want power?" Wasn't that something intrinsic in everyone? 

"No." Gellert's answer was short and final as he stood from the chair, easing back onto his legs. He gathered his articles of clothing and began the process of slowly mending them. 

"Really? Why?" 

Gellert simply shrugged, "Seems like a waste of time. Why have it, if you don't need it." 

"But, if you had power, you could easily find the Deathly Hallows. You could do anything." He stood by Gellert's side, leaning forward so he could look at Gellert's face.

The burnt hole in Gellert's pants stubbornly resisted the magic and Gellert sighed, sitting back onto the bed. "I don't need it." 

"Why not?" He pressed the question. He couldn't help it. He wanted to know why everything he'd assume about Gellert seemed to go against the truth. How much of Gellert's persona was contrived? 

Gellert shook his head, and cast another mending charm onto the hole, which stitched slowly, unraveling the burnt edges and re-weaving the weft. 

He bumped Gellert on his hip with his own, "Hey, tell me."

The silver eye turned to him, a frown creasing Gellert's lips, and he couldn't help but think how they felt in his dream. "Why do you insist on knowing?" 

He could feel the warmth of Gellert's body from this distance, practically next to his bare skin. It was very distracting. "I want to know more about you." He said, because that was the honest truth. He just wanted to know him. As he should, considering they were Soulmates. 

Gellert turned back to his pants, and cast one more Mending charm, then pulled it onto his legs. "Well, I already told you. I don't need it, because it's not something I care about."

"What do you care about?" 

Gellert went quiet, closing his mouth in a thin line and pulled his shirt on, focusing on each button, and the cuffs. He ignored his question, and slipped into the vest without another word. 

"Hey, are you just going to ignore me?" 

"Yes." Gellert said, finishing off the last of his buttons. "If you're so curious, why don't you learn some Legilimency and see which will win. My Occlumency, or your Leglimency." 

He rolled his eyes, plopping down onto the bed, "Ugh. Why can't you just tell me, instead of being an absolute prick about everything?" 

"I don't know, probably the same reason why you're such an annoying brat." The smile Gellert provided, cut through him like butter. 

"That was uncalled for." He retorted with defiance, pushing himself off the bed.

"Was it? How about this then, if I knew how irritating you'd be once I told you the truth, I would have much rather not woken up. Perhaps that would have taught you better." The grin on Gellert's face held no friendliness and each word was meant to bite. 

"Why do you have to be so cruel?" What he really wanted to say was, why the bloody hell was Gellert always such a wanker. Even after they were having a moment. 

Gellert's lips curled into a wider smile, devoid of any sympathy, "Cruelty would be telling you that you matter to me." 

The barbs sunk into his flesh and ripped open the wound Gellert had made when he tore away the names from his wrist. He gritted his teeth. It didn't make sense. Then why was he teaching him all these things? What about the things he said yesterday? About his power? What about that look he'd given? 

He looked up at Gellert, squaring his shoulders and holding his hurt like a shield. "I already know your tricks, Gellert. I know what you're trying to do." 

"And what might that be?" 

He walked toward Gellert, his steps and heartbeat steady, "Hurt me so that I'll run away." Maybe a wiser man would, but he stepped closer. "But it won't work, Gellert." 

He grabbed Gellert by the front of his shirt, and pulled him down to his level, "I already know the truth." 

And because he had nothing to lose… 

Albus kissed him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for 200+ kudos!   
> The support for this fic has been incredible and I love each and every one of you.   
> A special shout out to all those who comment and urge me to persevere.   
> This goes to you. 
> 
> Please venture forth carefully, as this is a heavy chapter.   
> Let me know what you think!

The kiss sealed his tomb with the same inescapability of his dreams.

Whereas the dreams chained him inside his body, spinning webs of paralysis around his limbs, the kiss cast him out of his own body blocking access to the controls of his reactions. The warmth spread like fizz, bubbling into his stomach, and making his chest flutter with foreign feeling. The kiss might as well have been imbued with _Petrificus Totalus_.

This had not been the reaction he'd been calculating for when he'd laid out those cruel words. Time and again, Albus moved in ways he could not predict, like a sporadic series of chess moves that was either chaotic mindlessness, or a highly refined strategy of deception. Albus had not presented the characteristics of being a strategist, but he had mentioned his abilities with chess.

So, perhaps this was just Albus finally showing his repertoire of attacks. If that was true, this was Albus's first true countermeasure--to combat the pain with pleasure. An unusual tactic, considering the potential backlash it presented as it opened a two-way channel between them.

The morbid curiosity flickered again as the lips shifted, sending a trail of trilling flourishes spread through his mouth and into his chest. Albus was skilled in this, his touches as precise as a surgical instrument upon a vital organ. Hands trailed along his sides, then around his forearms, up to his shoulders and then finally around his head, cradling it in a vice. Trapping him.

As in any fight, this was the exposé, the first of parries to get a taste of the opponent's techniques, skill, and power. He eased back control into his limbs, readying himself with his own riposte.

His own hands brushed against the front of Albus' chest, and then one wrapped around the warm neck, holding it gently from the nape. He pushed forward with his weight, pinning Albus to the wall, deepening their kiss with the opening of his mouth. Albus initiated the intrusion first, flicking his tongue and seeking the areas of his mouth that left trails of warm buzzing.

As Albus sought to make the most of his opportunity, Gellert's hand rose to curl around the side of the copper head. He wove his fingers in the locks, his thumb brushing against Albus' temple.

Finally, Albus broke away, inhaling, after an impressive amount of time, which he had to admit was in part skill and probably practice. Albus leaned against him, pressing their heads together, his arms still wrapped around Gellert's neck. He smiled, his thumb rubbing the space around Albus' temple.

"Now it's my turn." He said, low in his chest, letting the words rumble out as vibrations against Albus. At this proximity, he could feel the noticeable hitch in the smaller boy's breathing. Blue eyes lifted to his, wide-eyed and glossy.

_"Legilimens."_

He tore through the barrier between his mind and Albus, shredding the walls that stood between him and the pools of memories. Unlike the first time, he knew what he was looking for, and he did not waste time meandering. He spearheaded to the one memory that had invoked that tantalizing visceral reaction from Albus. He grabbed it by its tail and yanked it to the forefront, diving into it, to make sure Albus relived whatever this memory was.

Albus should have retreated when he had the chance.

When his feet landed in the dream, he was alone. The memory was dark around the edges, and hard to distinguish shapes from moving shadows. A familiar figure rummaged around the house, pulling unidentifiable objects off incorporeal bookshelves, tables, beds, from the wardrobe and from the desk into a suitcase, far smaller than the contents it held.

"Albus?" A thin, and reedy voice piped from the doorway, and he spun around to see the pale visage of a small, frail child.

Albus, caught in the act, spun around, hiding whatever he held in his hand behind his back, with a smile on his face. A different kind of smile than those Albus wore these days. This one had confidence.

"What are you doing, Albus?" The voice teetered between ephemeral and reedy, pitched high in a sing-song melody. If he had a body, he would have shivered.

Albus backed towards the suitcase, and placed the object deliberately on the desk again. "Nothing, Ari. Just cleaning up."

Her pale face peered behind Albus' back, and stark blue eyes flashed up at Albus' face. "You're lying." Her words drawled out with a whine, carrying the words with a knife edge.

Albus took the blow heavily, and dropped onto the bed. "I'm only going to be gone for another year, Ari. It'll be like when I leave for Hogwarts."

From his vantage in the corner of the room, he cannot see her expression, but her head tips forward. "But you're finished with Hogwarts, you said you'd stay after you're finished." Her words were quiet, but in the memory, they were clear as a cloudless sky.

"I did, but things change, Ari."

The air shifted, but he could not tell how he knew, or what caused it. Like a sudden depressurization, the air fled and the vacuum remaining choked even him in this memory. He took a step forward towards the pair, to get a better look.

"But. You. Said." The words came with a punch, stamped down cruelly by the heel. "You promised!"

Albus held up his hands, "Ari, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Someone is waiting for me. I might missed the train." The boy stood up, and clipped his suitcase shut.

It was a mistake.

The door behind him slammed shut, and he whipped his head towards it, then a voice screamed, "You promised!"

By the time he'd turned his head, he'd missed the origin point of the burst, and an explosion of darkness ripped through the tiny space with spectral, writhing tendrils that wrapped around everything in the room. It consumed every inch of the room with a choking violence. Splinters of every piece of furniture crackled and spit, spinning into an enormous mass of pure… malice.

He gasped for air, even though he was but a visitor in this memory, because the tendrils seemed aware of his presence and crushed him with wave after wave of blackness, whipping at his cheeks, flaying the clothing off his body.

Or perhaps this is what Albus felt.

He could not help but duck for cover when chunks of the wall began to splinter and crash into the opposite side. Wood groaned, and cracked with every pulse of the black mob. Then it happened.

The force of the explosion propelled him, shattering him against a wall which caved in along with the rest of the house's structural support beams. The roar of carnage as the building collapsed deafened his ears. Momentarily, he was blinded.

The next thing he saw were blinks of the memory, tapping in and out.

Then Albus crawled from the wreckage, slowly making his way out of the pile. In the midst of the ruins, a mangled body, bloody dress, limbs at unnatural angles, blue lips of death, and black tendrils cracking the skin around the dead, open eyes. In the corner, the girl shook, her fingers clawing at her own scalps and arms and any surface she could grasp. There was no sound, only the sway of the girl's body as she rocked back and forth, her eyes wide and red.

Then they met his.

And he reeled out of the memory, stumbling backwards as he did so, back in his own body, releasing Albus from the grasp. He expected tears, instead, a blow connected with his face, and he was thrown to the ground, blood bursting from his nose, trailing hot liquid down into his mouth. The metallic taste shook him out of the momentarily shock, and Albus loomed over him.

"You had no right." The anguish in Albus' eyes dried any words he'd attempted to form in his mouth.

He could not speak.

Logically, what he saw in the memory, none of it should be real. Perhaps it was a very terrible nightmare, like the kind he had. It could not possibly be real.

He did not ask who the girl was, or who the dead woman was, but it was not hard to guess.

He was wrong to have peered into that darkness.

He knew that now.

Albus, stood with only his anger and grief propping up each leg. His spine was curved, and his mouth trembled with pain. He could not see Albus's eyes, because they were covered by fists, white knuckled with pressure against his scalp. "It was my fault." Albus's voice was unrecognizable with the weight it carried.

He knew from the way the shoulders shook that those were tears slipping through the cracks of the fingers. He let the boy weep, because he did not know what else he could do. No amount of comfort would ease the pain of what he saw.

Just as no one could comfort him about his own dreams.

They were but an arms length apart, separated in their own spheres of pain. He reached out with a hand, bloodied from his nose, and grabbed gently at the fists. The muscles clenched even as he rubbed a thumb over the knuckles, so he softly said, "Perhaps… I was wrong."

He could see it now, the reflections of the cage built around Albus. The same that shackled him to his own fate. They were two of the same. Cast from the same mold, but of different materials. One of Gold, the other of Silver.

The contrast between the Albus then, and the Albus now, and the fear of small spaces, it all made sense now. If he were to believe what he saw to be true, it would also explain the denial of his own power. Magic ran thick in blood. Albus feared he was the same.

Albus did not move his hands, but he spit out, "About what?"

"You and I are not so different after all…"

He finally managed to untangle one hand from Albus' face, and brought it close to his own, pressing it against the left side of his cheek, making sure the fingers were close to his temple. "An eye … for an eye." He whispered, as their eyes met.

He had only tried this once before, and it had been far too intimate of a scenario to repeat, yet here he was, laying out his greatest mistake for Albus to see.

To show him, between the two of them, who was the true monster.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm a few hours too late, but I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. This next chapter is my gift to you all. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.

He did not want to see. 

Gellert's silver eye glowed from the morning light slipping past the window drapes, devoid of humanity. Gellert's face had not changed in expression even after he'd broken open his blood vessels. The blood still flowed, dripping into Gellert's mouth and down his chin, dark against his pale skin. "An eye for an eye." The words morphed into spiders crawling up his spine, and all he could see was the ghostly reflection of his mother's body, rising again with his shame. 

The hollow ache of the memory resurfaced again and again, the image of his mother's body floating to the top like a dead body in a pool of water. It hurt in ways he could not bear. 

If only there was a way to revisit memories without having to live through the pain and trauma again and again. If only he could step away from it all, and just watch it as a spectator. Then maybe he could appreciate the last times he'd sat with Mother, told her about his adventures with Doge. Then maybe it wouldn't hurt so much. 

Staring into Gellert's eyes, he could see it clearly now. Gellert did not understand. 

"Why did you pick that memory? Of all the memories inside my head?" He asked, even as his hand was pressed against Gellert's smooth face. 

Gellert blinked, as if the question did not make sense, "Because I knew it would hurt you the most." 

He laughed, at the odd naivety Gellert reflected, in contrast to his own. For all the intellect and bookish genius this boy had, he knew nothing of people. "So am I to want to hurt you in return, in a way that would hurt you the most?" 

Gellert blinked again, "Of course. Why wouldn't you? Isn't that why you broke my nose?"

He pulled his hand away from the grasp, shaking his head with a sigh. "No. Gellert, that was because you were being an absolutely unjustifiable prick. It was just a kiss, not a torture tactic." 

Gellert did not provide a response, but his silence spoke louder than any statement could have. A small flame flickered in his chest, and he could not help but to hold his hands close, to keep it safe. For someone to not understand the difference, what kind of world had he grown up in? 

"I wouldn't want anyone to suffer through their worst memories like that." Albus lifted his wand and swished away the blood and healed the crack in Gellert's nose. "Especially not you." 

The response puzzled Gellert, which he could now distinguish by the way Gellert's eyes narrowed, and his eyes rested somewhere between reality and thought. A silver lock of hair fell into Gellert's face, but it went unnoticed. Finally, Gellert's eyes focused again, "Why?"

He looked down at the smears of blood on his palms and fingers. Why? Even after all that Gellert had done to him? Even after he'd violated his mind and tore through the worst of his memories? "Because I think you've been hurt enough." 

"Gellert?" He looked back up, and Gellert's eyes had opened, letting in a ray of light inside the empty house. He could not look away. 

Gellert pulled his fingers to his own temple, and pressed the fingertips to the soft skin. The long lashes fluttered closed and Gellert stilled, only his lips moving as he concentrated, "You may think differently once you see." 

Gellert pulled him into his mind, and gently let him go, like a drop of water in a shallow basin. 

He opened his eyes. 

A long corridor stretched out before him, with so many doors he could not count them nor see their end. Noises and whispers leaked from each door, but they were indistinguishable to his ears. Each door was exactly like the next, without markings or labels. He ran his hand against the wall and the edge of the door frame. It felt real. 

He could feel the rough hewn stone of the corridor walls, and the grain in the doors that led to the rest of the mind. He ran his hand across the doors again. In every way it felt real, except one. 

There were no doorknobs. 

He pushed against the door with his shoulder, but it held steady. 

He backed away from the doors, and stood in the corridor peering down towards the unseeable end that darkened as it stretched. 

It was like a prison in here.

The hall was not lit by any lights, and no windows punctured the walls, yet he could see enough in front of him to walk. It was a narrow and uncomfortable space to walk down, as if this hall had not been made for a grown person to walk down. "Gellert? Where am I supposed to go?" He asked, his voice sounding too loud for the space he was in and distant at the same time. 

There was no response.

So he kept walking. 

As he walked, the sounds grew louder, clearer and much more distressing. He could hear crying and screaming behind the doors. He walked past them, then he heard a soft sound that stopped him in his tracks. He stepped closer to the door, not sure whether he heard it right. Like a whispered prayer, a small, very young and child-like voice said with slow pronunciation, "Albus… Percival… Wulfric… Brian…. Dumbledore." 

Someone was calling his name. 

He rushed to the door, pressing his hands and face against it, "Hey, I'm here. I'm here." He said, but the sounds from inside the room vanished, and he was alone again. 

"Gellert… what was that?" He asked into the darkness. Who had been calling his name? 

Instead of a response, a door slid open, the light spilling into the dark corridor like a hairline fracture. Slowly, he approached, pushing the door open. 

The memory bloomed and the hall melted away, along with the door, replaced with tall grey stone pillars and a long row of judges, each with a sharp eye focused on the two boys standing on the chamber floor. The man in the center of the judges stood from his seat, the legs of the chair screeching. His voice boomed and echoed in the stone room, filling it with stern command, "I am certain you are both aware of the rules for your Final Examination, but one can never be too cautious. Listen carefully, as failure to comply will result in expulsion and, or severe punishment." 

The man emphasized the word 'severe' with a long drawl, then looked one by one at the two boys. "No illegal spells, no Unforgivable spells, and no drawing of blood." 

The man took his seat once more and rearranged his stack of parchment, "You shall be scored on creativity, efficacy, depth and breath of your spells."

With a single clap of the man's knobby hands, he declared, "You may begin." 

A flurry of light and energy exploded in the chamber, and he took a step back from the chaos. The two boys flung spells that he'd never heard of, with such speed, he could barely keep up with whether the casting was for a counter spell or an attack. From his vantage point, the larger boy was at an advantage, with his powerful bursts, and quick wand snaps that made simple spells seem like battering rams or barrages. To add to his appearance, he had a head of dark brown hair, and wideset shoulders. All he could see of the other boy was a head of tawny gold hair, a bronze colored neck, and the quick sweeps of the wand hand, deftly managing to deflect every attack. 

Colors flashed in the room in bright technicolor. 

He could not look away for a single second, in fear he might miss a key detail. The two students were evenly matched, both in their separate ways, yet they dueled like professionals. Beads of sweat began to drip down the bullish boy's face, and a snarl curled his lips as frustrations grew. 

The other boy had barely moved from his spot. 

A large hand drew up into the air, then sliced the air, casting a spray of thorns at his opponent. They whizzed and dodged and spun in the air, honing in on their target with deadly accuracy. A shout caught in his throat to warn the other boy, but it had been unnecessary. The thorns fizzed around an invisible bubble, which burst with a powerful gust of wind that threw the other boy back against the far wall. 

The boy did not stir. 

The one still standing, straightened his shirt, and brushed off dust from his coat. Who were these kids? And how had they learned to duel like that? 

He spun around, looking for other students or an audience, but the two students were alone with the elderly individuals and the scratching of quills. 

Chair legs scratched against stone and he looked up at the man in the center when the walls flashed with color and he watched as the boy left standing threw out one hand, as if to catch the spell, just before the orb split, some impacting with the boy's face, the other rebounding in splitting multitudes of flashing light back at the other boy. 

The fragments of the rebounded spell shot through the boy's body without mercy. He watched in horror as the flesh began to bleach, then dry, and sink into the cavities, leaving nothing but a husk of bones and white skin. What was once a boy was unidentifiable other than the odd angles the bones had sagged under the skin, piling in on each other. 

He clapped a hand against his mouth to stop himself from making a sound as his eyes slid back to the other boy. 

The boy held his head in his hand, the one that partially deflected the spell. Like his opponent, the skin and hair had bleached bone stark white. 

With a slow turn, the boy faced what remained of his opponent, and lowered his hand. 

From under the hand, a white eye glowed with ominous luminosity as it peered at the body. Devoid of any emotion. Devoid of humanity. 

He reeled out of the memory, clawing his way to an exit. 

This was a trap. 

It had to be. 

Why would Gellert show him something like this? 

He began to run through the stone chamber, and with a thrust of his hand, he crumbled the wall. He fell into another room, stumbling over the stone, to a dimly lit circular office. The air was choked with smoke that burned the inside of his nose, and smelled faintly like Veritas Serum. Throwing an arm over his mouth and nose, he barreled into the office, into the center, where Gellert sat in the center, his body bound tight in a standing position. 

His silver eye was bloodshot and he had some spit dribbling down his mouth. He realized with sudden awareness that Gellert was screaming, a harrowing wail. Stepping further into the circle, a woman held a stone knife in her hand, and dug it into Gellert's arm. The pale body shuddered as Gellert's head tipped back and the next scream caught in the sob. 

He rushed to Gellert's side, coughing from the smoke, but he could not reach him, blocked by an invisible force around the woman. The woman withdrew the knife, then stabbed it back into the flesh, her lips moving as she tore open more of the arm. She repeated the action a third time, making the final stroke of the insignia on Gellert's arm. She then took the knife in both her hands and broke it, crumbling it and rubbing the dust in the wound, that oozed blood down the white skin. 

Gellert shuddered, though he no longer screamed. 

"On the day of your seventeenth year, your fate shall be sealed." Her voice rasped against his ears like sandpaper, then she was gone. Scattered like a million specks of sand in the wind. 

Then he was yanked out of the memory, the door closing swiftly behind him, throwing him back into his own body with a forceful thrust. 

He opened his eyes and instinctively, reached out for Gellert's arm. 

Gellert hissed when his hand clamped around the wound, and he could see from the flecks seeping through the shirt fabric, it was as if it had just been made. It had not scarred. Had not healed. 

His heartbeat felt hot in his chest, and he couldn't stop the anger rushing into his limbs. The words he wanted to speak burned the air inside his lungs, wanting nothing more than to find that woman and wring the truth from her. Instead, he held Gellert's arm, leaning his forehead against Gellert's shoulder, choking out, "What did they do to you?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!   
> I felt like everything I was writing sucked, so I kept scrapping my drafts.   
> I'm not proud of this chapter, but I wanted to keep this going. 
> 
> Hope you can forgive me!

He gritted his teeth as pain exploded in his temples. 

The emotions poured out of the shattered hole in his Occlumency, too fast for him to control. The memory flooded around him, swallowing him into the past, forcing him to relive that moment he'd locked away. The smell of smoke and acrid bitterness filled his nose, wakening the distinct feeling writhing in his chest that day. The familiar suffocating pressure tightened around his chest, coiling around it with merciless constricting, filling his mind with his own cries and screams. 

He needed to get Albus out. 

With all the skill and will he could muster, he pushed at Albus' presence, but he felt like a boulder inside his mind, stubborn and immovable. He gritted his teeth harder, feeling the ache rising in his jaw. 

A choked sound of frustration escaped his clenched throat, and finally, the boulder shifted, and he was alone once more. 

His shoulders and chest shook, as his breath rattled, the only sound he could manage to make. 

His ears were deaf, and his body could not register the grasp of his shoulder. He was lost in the vehement tidal waves rocking him. He tipped his head forward, breathing through his nose, then opened his eyes. 

He stared at his hands, even though he could not identify them. He poured out all the emotions swirling inside into his palms. The hole in his mind, he mended with speed, focusing all his concentration on the task. When his mind and chest no longer felt like a raging maelstrom, he clenched his fists and crushed what feelings had escaped. 

He looked up at Albus, and the cold numbness blanketed over him, echoing a dull tranquility inside his chest. He did not feel betrayal, nor anger. Just emptiness. 

Albus' gaze did not falter, and his hand did not fall away. Instead, he said, "So that's how you did it." The expression fluctuated between concern and wonder, somehow settling on something akin to a parent's gaze upon their child.

He did not have to ask Albus what he meant, because Albus already knew. "At first, I thought you hadn't felt anything about that boy's death, but that's not true at all, is it?" 

He did not look away, because that would be a sign of admission. It did not deter Albus, "You just hid them all away in that mind of yours." For someone who claimed to not have any education in mindreading, Albus was uncannily talented, a born natural, if he were to guess. 

Although he didn't speak a word, it didn't matter, "You didn't expect it, did you?" Albus posed it as a question, but they both knew Albus had figured it out. There was no use in playing this charade. 

"No… I didn't." His throat felt sore, scratched from the inside, like he'd burned it. The admission burned more saying it outloud. 

"How did it happen?" 

He'd asked himself that question countless times, spinning around that exact memory from every angle he could imagine, in every way he knew how, just to understand what had happened that day. But his perspective, no matter how clearly he'd seen it, the crystal clarity in which he'd tried to preserve it, he couldn't see everything. 

His reflexes caught it faster than his mind had, but he'd managed to cast the first spell that had come to mind. 

Repercutio. He'd been preparing for the examinations, practicing his wandless and wordless magic. It'd been the easiest spell to manipulate. It was simple, and malleable. All he'd done was change one detail. 

Repercutio multiplico. Rather than rebounding as one returned spell, the rebound would set off a chain reaction of the same spell split into multiple parts. Each split was then split another time, and another, until it reached the target, making it more powerful across distances.

He had not tested it. 

He should have. 

He brushed the question away, lifting himself off the floor, dusting off his pants, "Does it matter?" 

Albus grabbed his wrist, pulling him back down to his knees. "Don't run away from it." 

"There's a difference between running away and moving on. Figuring out what happened, it cannot change my fate, no more than I can change my past." He shook Albus off, "Do you still want to help me?" 

There wasn't even a breath of hesitation at the question. "Of course!" Albus popped up off the ground. He was relieved. He'd feared after what he'd done, Albus would do the one thing he couldn’t afford. Block his path. 

A finger jutted towards him menacingly, "But I demand some answers. No more evading." 

He heaved a small sigh, and begrudgingly, pulled over the chair, gesturing for Albus to sit on the bed. The bed creaked when Albus climbed onto it, crossing his legs under him. "First, what is that mark, and why hasn't it healed?" 

He didn't have all the answers, and what information he had found about bind runes was superficial, more a study of culture and language rather than magic. "It's a bind rune designed to track down an individual, that much I am certain." 

Albus' eyes were round and bright, "Show me again." 

There was no point in denying the request, so he began unbuttoning his shirt, slow in his movements. Albus stared at his chest with rapt attention, watching as more and more of his skin began to show. He didn't understand what was so fascinating about his chest, there was barely a hair on it. The shirt slipped off his shoulders, and exposed the mark upon his arm.

Albus slipped off the bed, approaching slowly then kneeling down by his side. Fingers traced around the puffy edges of the uneven lacerations, and a shiver ran up his spine. Albus spoke, his voice low, "It could be a Galdrastafir, the staves are similar, but these symbols aren't part of the Elder Futhark or the Ogham. I don't recognize them." 

The light brushing against the wound stung, but it was bearable in comparison to the buzz each touch seemed to trigger up his arm and into his chest. "You know of Ancient Runes?" 

Albus nodded, slowly, his brows knitted together, "Yes, well… I studied them at Hogwarts."

"Did they ever mention how to destroy a rune?" 

The fingers paused and withdrew, "No, understanding of runic magic was lost around Roman times when the Druids were eradicated." 

His brows furrowed, "That can't be right." 

Albus looked up, and his blue eyes twinkled, catching the morning light through the curtains, "The Romans massacred them, and burned down the sacred groves. There's no historical evidence of them afterwards." 

That would explain why finding Druidic manuscripts had been nearly impossible. "I've met them." 

Albus' eyes flashed a brilliant blue as a ray of sunlight beamed across his face, "Really? What were they like?"

He looked away, "You saw it." The smell of smoke and bitterness drifted through his mind, but he easily swept it aside. Locking it away again. 

"Right… yes, sorry." Albus returned to his spot on the bed, tucking his legs under again. He pulled his shirt back on, but didn't bother tucking it back in. 

"Anything else?" 

Albus' eyes dropped to the floor, then to the side, the up towards the ceiling, never quite making eye contact. His hands nervously tapped his knee. 

"Ask me." He said. 

Albus took a deep breath, then stopped tapping, "While I was inside your head, I heard something… I think it was a young boy saying my name. My full name. Who was that?" 

It took a moment to realize Albus had changed the subject entirely. Why would he want to know about that memory? "Me." He replied. 

Albus's eyes shot over to him, pinning him, "Why were you saying my name?" 

To memorize them. Albus sat in front of the window, blocking his view of the light, but it lit his hair in a crown of gold, just at the top. Even with the dim lighting, he could see the details of Albus' face, and he memorized them, as he'd done with the name. He couldn't tell him. Not yet. "I was trying to figure out why you had so many. Took up a fair amount of space on my arms at that age." 

Albus took it well, as he had done the first time, "Pervical is my father's name, Wulfric was my grandfather's, and Brian had been my late uncle's. By the time I'd been born, they'd all been fighting over who I'd be named after. After my uncle's death, my mother decided it was best to simply name me after all three." 

Their conversation ended prematurely with the knocking at his door. Bagshot's voice wheedled into the room, "Gellert? Are you awake? Have you seen Albus anywhere?" 

He rose from his chair, and walked to the door slowly, "I'm awake." He motioned for Albus to hide. When he opened the door, Bagshot stood with a bundle of books floating beside her. She peered around him, humming. 

"That's strange, I thought I heard his voice." She said. "It's almost noon. Maybe something happened with his family." She looked concerned, but then patted his arm. "Come and eat sometime. I don't believe you've had any dinner last night, nor this morning. You must be hungry." 

"Perhaps a little later. I'm busy." He replied, staying as still as possible. 

"Alright then, dear. Just be mindful of your health." She walked away, holding the railing tightly with her hand as she climbed down the stairs, the books floating after her. 

He closed the door, and sealed it with a Silencing charm, just in case she made a second social visit. When he turned, Albus had vanished. 

"You can come out now." He said. 

The second chair rippled and ballooned, reforming into the arms and legs of a human. Albus shook out the rest of the woodwork from his body and sighed, "That was a close one." 

He couldn't help but stare. He hadn't even noticed there had been a second chair. The mimicry had been so acute, the chair had seemed a perfectly natural addition to his room. Human transfiguration. 

So he wasn't the only one with a fascination. 

"You're very good at Transfiguration." 

"Really? You think so?" Albus beamed, one side of his mouth turning up. 

Did Albus really not understand how much talent he had? 

"How well can you mimic another person?" He stepped closer, and Albus tapped a finger to his chin. 

"Don't know, never tried that before." 

Again, he stepped forward, "Try transfiguring into me."

Albus lifted a brow, then made a slow circle around him. He could hear the footsteps rounding, and when Albus came into view again, it was not Albus. 

In his place, a boy stood. Just as tall as he was, white hair, wearing an untucked shirt, and no shoes. The boy stood tall, back straight, his facial features balanced and refined, even his skin had been smoothed into a pearly finish. The white circle of the iris shined by the light, but it looked nothing like his own. He looked human. 

"How did I do?" The voice however, was entirely Albus. 

Was this how Albus saw him? 

He did not step any closer, afraid to break the mirage. 

"You did… well." The words stuck to his mouth, his eyes unable to tear away from the reflection of his own face staring back at him. Echoing what he wished he was, rather than the reality. 

He broke away with a sharp turn, forcing his mind to turn away.

"You don't sound convincing. What's wrong?" When he looked up again, Albus was back to looking like himself, small, gentle, and unassuming. 

His eyes went to the calendar on his wall, "Nothing. Just thinking about how little time we have." His chest felt like it was caving in on itself. It ached with the pain of knowing that what he'd seen was just an illusion. 

He knew he looked nothing like that. 

He knew what he looked like. 

A monster.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive!  
> I had to take a bit of an hiatus to stock up on research, so these next few chapters took much longer than I thought they would.   
> Hope you enjoy, and sorry for the wait.   
> Let me know what you think!

Gellert whisked away the drying dark stains along his shirt and on the floor with a professional ease, his wand poised in the air like a maestro’s baton, the other hand clenched in a fist behind the small of his back. In all but appearance, he carried his body like a man many times beyond his years. The white of Gellert’s hair hung around his face, loose and unkempt from their struggles, as did the silence between them. He couldn’t figure out the words to say. 

Something had happened. 

Albus released the transfiguration from his body with the relaxing of his fist. His muscles unwound, his bones sighing as they compressed back into the right size, and his skin melted away until he there was nothing left to undo except the crick in his neck. He kneaded it with his hand, twisting his head back and forth. It was easier to mimic the shape of inanimate objects, but maintaining the form always gave him the weirdest of aches and sores. He was made of flesh and bone, after all, not wood and metal. 

Recreating Gellert had been difficult in different ways. With as much time he spent admiring Gellert’s form and face the past days, he’d relied more on the impressions inside his mind, rather than focus on every minute detail of reality. He just wanted to impress Gellert, and rushed the process, using his instincts more than his senses. It was clear he’d been foolish in his haste. 

The expression Gellert had made told him as much, even if the words had not spoken the truth. It had come and gone like a winter wind, forgetting it was summertime. Almost too fast to see, but too honest to forget. Gellert had looked like he was in pain. 

But why? He couldn’t stop thinking about it, wondering about it. The questions and answers swam in his mind, weaving along an unseen current, obscuring the truth from him. He closed his eyes, grasping at the frail tendrils of understanding Gellert. The thoughts slipped away as easily as they came. 

“I’m going out.” 

He snapped his head up to look at Gellert, who’d lifted the wall of emptiness over his eyes again. He stepped towards Gellert, "Going out where?” 

Gellert passed, stirring the scent of musk and freshly turned earth around him, and the heat inside his abdomen. "Places." 

He followed Gellert, "Can I come with you?" 

The response was immediate, "No." His feet failed to move a step further, and Gellert pulled on his coat jacket, one sleeve after another, "Tomorrow, we'll work on your spell theory." Then the lights in the room flickered into smoke, leaving him in the darkness with only the sunlight splitting the curtained window. Gellert neither stopped nor looked back at him, closing the door with a dull click, as if forgetting he was still in the room. 

He stood, rooted to the rug. For the first time, he felt slow. Slow like those other students in Potions, who couldn't follow the directions, resulting in unpleasant stenches or marks. Slow like his opponents playing against him in chess, who just couldn't see as far ahead. Slow like everyone else had been. He felt conflicted. Part of him hated this feeling of being inadequate. Yet, another part of him couldn't get beyond the concept of lips and warmth and hands on his skin. 

Shit. He twisted his hand into his pocket, and pulled out his wand, "Lumos." The light glowed around the tip of his wand, washing the room in eerie luminance. A shiver ran up his back. In the dim light, the room looked uncomfortably bare of soul. Rooms reflected the person who resided in them. Especially bedrooms, considering that was where they'd be at their most comfortable. This room was barren, save for that journal and the calendar tacked to the wall. He shivered again, unable to fight against the ominous feeling in the darkness. 

He hurried out of the room. He should look for the Professor. She had been wondering where he'd been. He should tell her that everything was fine. As he closed the door behind him, he peered into the empty darkness again. So strange how it had only been this morning that he'd run into this room and found Gellert injured. His lips tingled, and he touched them, recalling how they'd buzzed when he'd pressed them against Gellert's, exciting every nerve in his body. 

He turned away from the thought and the door with a sharp swing of his heel. 

As pleasant as it had been for him, Gellert hadn't agreed. Had seen it as an attack. An attack that had caused Gellert to claw out the most painful memories from his past. Had the kiss been so painful to him? Or did he just misunderstand? 

Too many questions. Merlin, he couldn't concentrate at all. What had Gellert said? Stop thinking. Right. Easier said than done. 

With a sigh, he padded down the stairs, “Professor?”

“In here dear,” Her voice called from inside her study. When he appeared in the doorway, he found her sitting in the armchair, just under the window with the photo book on her lap. The one he’d found the day before. ”Is everything alright?” 

He rubbed the back of his neck, and grinned. “Yes, I was just feeling a little under the weather this morning.” It was easy enough to lie these days, and Professor didn’t take much notice or interest. He couldn’t' tell which. ”Is there anything I can help with today?” 

Her wrinkled face lifted in a weak smile. “I don’t think I’ll be doing much writing today. It’s a nice day, why don’t we sit out in the garden.” Her garden was a quaint and small thing, considering she was a far more interested in books rather than plants, but it was green and flourishing in the summer weather, even if the clouds were persistent. 

"Alright, Professor." He helped her off the arm chair and led her to the back door, easing her into the bench. She clenched the book tightly in her fist as she walked. “Come, sit with me.” She patted the seat beside her, and he filled the space, leaving distance between them. The chatter and songs of birds filtered beyond the tall fences between each plot of land, and a bumblebee buzzed slowly around the blooming flowers. Neither of them interrupted the easy peace that had settled around them.

Not that he had any idea how to stop thinking about the way Gellert's lips had felt against his, or how firm he'd felt up against him. He really shouldn't be having these thoughts when Gellert's great-aunt was sitting beside him. He really shouldn't, but he did. 

"What do you think of Gellert?" The question nearly choked him, because he'd been thinking about white hair and that silver eye, and despite everything that had happened this morning, he still found him bloody attractive. Even though he should likely feel more anger or contempt considering he'd had his mind raided without consent. 

The silence had stretched a little too long, and he cleared his throat, "He's…" He searched for the right word to describe Gellert, "different." It was a pathetic attempt at a description, but he didn't think he should tell the Professor that he thought Gellert was terrifyingly attractive and there was very little Gellert could do that would make him think otherwise, apparently. He’d never had to fight so many battles in one day. Never met someone who made him feel this… alive.

The corners of her eyes and lips crinkled, "I'm sure many say the same about you." 

He nodded, "They have, but I don't think it's the same kind of different." 

"In what way?" She peered at him with a crook in her smile. 

“He thinks differently." Again, perhaps he'd lost a chunk of his own intelligence when he'd had Gellert tear through his mind. 

Professor Bagshot hummed, "I wouldn't know."

His brows knitted, "What do you mean?" She was his family. Wouldn't she know best? 

"It's been ten years since I last saw Gellert." She opened the book to the page with the little boy. "He was seven, when he came to England last. Didn't speak a single word to us while he was here. Didn't cry during the funeral." 

"Who's funeral?"

"His mother's." Her fingers traced the small face of the fair lady poised in the picture across from the child. "Isn't she beautiful?" Her fingers stroked the faded pigment gently. "She was our beautiful, brilliant Ellie. My sister's only granddaughter." 

"How did she…" He didn't finish, hearing how the Professor's breathing sharpened, and she breathed in a long breath. 

Her voice was soft when she finally spoke, "We don't know, they never found her body. We… It… Times were confusing back then. Communication was slow, so it took time to find out." 

"Find out about what?" 

"What happened to Gellert." Her voice rasped, and her mouth worked around the next words, trying to find the right ones, "We thought he must have disappeared with his mother. We thought he'd suffered the same fate. Should have looked harder for him, but we'd been grieving, and we hadn't known the baby. They found him, some time later. He was thin, weak, had markings of abuse and terrible wounds along his arms. They told us he'd been found in a Muggle orphanage. That's why he had been so hard to find. He'd been abandoned there." A tear formed in Bagshot's eye, and she hurriedly wiped it away with her palm. "Sorry, dear, I know you don't want to be listening to some old stories about an old crone's mistakes." 

His heart twisted and ached from the knowledge. It did not explain much, but it explained somethings about what Gellert had said. The passing remark on hunger, the lack of faith in other people, the defensive wall he built around himself. His own eyes watered but he held his voice steady, placing his hand on her shoulder, "Professor, thank you for sharing these stories with me, I know Gellert wouldn't have told me even if I had asked, but why tell me at all?" 

Her hand enveloped his, cold and slightly clammy to the touch, "I've known your name long before you came to Godric's Hollow, Albus." 

He didn't know what to say to that. Perhaps she meant that she'd known his parents before his mother moved them here. He shook his head again, "I'm not sure I understand, Professor. What do you mean?" 

At this proximity, he could see the tiny flecks of color in Professor Bagshot's eyes as they softened, and her hand tightened around his, "While he stayed here, there was one thing we would hear Gellert repeating to himself in his room when he thought no one was listening." 

His heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears, drowning out Professor Bagshot's voice and replaced it with a voice from that dark and narrow hallway of Gellert's mind. 

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! I can't believe this fic hit 300+ kudos!  
> Thank you so much for all the love and support, I love reading every single comment, and it gives me LIFE.  
> I've written out the outline for the remainder of this fic, and there'll be approximately 50 chapters in the end!  
> I'm SO excited to write the next parts. Hope you enjoy this one in the meantime!

He blamed Albus for his miscalculation. 

He Apparated with a stumble and sharp bile rising up his throat, a loud snap following his travel. His foot touched the cobblestone ground, just as his stomach rolled in wild arcs, forcing him to fall against the brick wall and to heave up the emptiness in his gut. His throat and chest burned as he wrestled with the nausea and dizziness. Each churn of his stomach painfully ripping away at his throat lining. 

This was Albus’ fault. 

His fault for being bloody perfect. 

The pang of envy wove into the nausea. Albus Apparated as if it were as simple as walking. He hadn't had much practice with the skill, and it had been forbidden on the Durmstrang grounds. All excuses for his shoddy abilities. He was terrible at it. A fact sorely frustrating him, over and over again as he bent over the alleyway like some common daytime drunkard. 

But he needed to get out of that house. He had needed to put as much distance between them as he could muster in the shortest amount of time. He'd been distracted. Desperate. He hadn't prepared for this. Not like he had with everything else. He hadn't expected Albus to be just as skilled in Transfiguration as he'd been with Apparating. Why had he asked Albus to transfigure into his own image? Why? 

The pale facsimile of his own appearance haunted him, much like the nausea in his chest. Like a poltergeist conjured by his own hubris, it mocked him. Tortured him with images of something he could never be. 

He clenched his fist hard enough for the pain to become unbearable and slammed it against the brick. Stop this madness. Don't let this weaken you. He gritted his teeth, and locked the memory away, like he'd done so many times before. Categorizing it until he had the mindset to process it and understand why he felt such dysphoria around his own appearance. It was childish to be so upset. He wasn't a child anymore. 

Besides, there wasn't any time to flounder in this alleyway. 

He'd dedicated a significant amount of the previous month detailing the necessary tools he'd need to preform his extrication. Based on the time constraints, the moon phases, and the availability of ingredients, he'd comprised a short list of potions based on versatility and potency. He'd memorized the steps and ingredients before arriving. He hadn't wanted his reading material flag him as a potential threat when he arrived via Portkey. The customs inspection had been more thorough than he'd been advised. A good thing he had plenty of caution. 

He straightened the front of his coat and let out a steady breath. A few of the ingredients he needed would be easily tracked to a specific potion recipe if one was clever enough to compile the sales records of the Diagon Alley shopkeepers. However, the solution was simple. Disguise his appearance. No one would ask for his name, so tracking would be difficult. 

He slid a hand down his face, eyes swirling into a murky brown, and slicked his fingers through his hair dying it a deep auburn. He pinched fingers around his nose bridge and twisted, adding a slight bump to his nose. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to avoid unwanted recognition. His height and build remained the same, but granted human perception was inaccurate at best, it would be of little importance in the long run. 

“Tempus.” A pair of clock hands appeared against the back of his wrist. Three quarters past noon. He'd spent too much time pitying himself. He spat the disgust onto the ground, and shook out the rest of his natural persona. Now he was a young apprentice potioneer, running errands for an uncle. Perhaps a little naïve, and empty-headed. Yes. That would do. 

With a quick pace, he hurried to his first stop, pulling open the door to Eeylops Owl Emporium with some force. The door jingled sweetly as he stepped inside, as a wave of pungent floral scents hit him, barely masking the sour undernotes of bird excrements. He held a hand over his nose, but walked deeper into the store. Cages upon cages lined the store, each hosting animals of all species and magical origin. A small woman wrestled a feathered creature behind the counter, calling out to him, "I'll be with you as soon as I'm able!" A loud screech triggered a chorus effect upon the other feathered creatures in the shop. 

Owls of all sizes and colors swiveled their heads towards him, puffing their feathers up into a wall of threatening wings and muscle. They stared at him with big round eyes, and open beaks, ready to lash out at him. He'd never gotten along with owls. They always seemed to find something off-putting about him. A pity, since he would direly need one in the coming days. 

As he approached the counter, the bird at the very end caught his eye. It was doing something quite peculiar. The tiny bird squeezed its feathers into a compressed shape of unidentifiable greys and browns, with its eyes only visible as red slits under a pair of forked horns. He bent down to take a better look. It stayed frozen under his gaze, returning his stare with a glare of its own. It looked like a tiny devil in disguise. Some part of his chest twined with appreciation. 

"It's a Northern white-faced owl, imported directly from Africa." The woman popped her head up above the counter, her hair pulled up into a light and messy bun. She had gloves reaching her elbows, and a smock that covered the front of her narrow waist. "It's trying to hide from you." 

A smile played upon his lips, easier to conjure now that he was pretending to be someone else. "Well, I would most certainly appreciate if it gained a liking towards me, as I have towards it." He stuck his face closer to the bars to inspect the way it had shriveled its body up, "How does one get owls to be friendlier?" 

Her lips stretched into a red smile, and she bent down to pick up a small bag from behind the counter. "All owls have a weak spot for treats. These here are our signature treats. Guaranteed to make your owl a happier owl. Here… try," She handed him a nugget of what seemed to be processed dried meat shaped into a rodent. He held it up against the wires of the cage, and the bird began to inflate, becoming more recognizable. With big round eyes it approached his fingers, flicking out its tongue to have a taste. Liking the little bits of food it managed to peck off, it gained its confidence and plucked it out of his fingers, swallowing it whole with a bob of its head. 

The owl pecked at his fingertips, searching for more treats. He scratched it on its forehead and it blinked slowly pleased by his scratches. If only humans were this easy to manipulate. "How much for this one?" 

She clasped her gloved hands together, "Twentytwo Galleons. He's very unique and uncommon in these parts of the world, and has formal training for the Owl Post. We'll even include a complimentary bag of treats, to nurture the bonds between owner and owl." 

He considered the offer. Twentytwo galleons was a hefty price for an owl, but it wasn't as though he had a limited budget. An exotic owl wasn't necessary for his purposes, but then again, it would make more sense as a gift. Besides, it was the smallest owl here. "Twentytwo galleons it is." He procured them from his coat, setting them down on the counter with a clatter. She swept them away and into her registry, pulling out a crinkled bag of owl treats as promised, and a long black fabric.

"Keep it covered until you arrive home. It will take some time for the owl to get used to its new home. It'll take a week or so for it to adjust. Two mice, one in the morning and the evening should suffice, and if you have any questions, feel free to contact us here at Eeylops!" She wrapped the dark clothe around the wire mesh of the cage and pinned it with a spell, flashing him a white smile. She batted her lashes at him a few times, raising one shoulder. Perhaps if he needed more from her, he'd have played along, but the owl was really all he would need. 

"Thank you, have a good afternoon." He said, picking the cage up off the counter. 

She called after him, "Come back soon!" 

He didn't turn around as he left. 

He headed down the street, towards the sign labeled 'Magical Menagerie'. The storefront was lined with randomly assorted cages, and creatures that lazed about in their confinement, likely sleeping or biding their timely escape. He squeezed past them with his owl, and pulled open the door. A middle aged woman appeared as the door swung shut, her dark robes sweeping in the air as she gestured to him with an enthusiastic jerk of her hands, “Welcome to the Magical Menagerie, what can I help you with, young man?” 

He smiled at the woman, adding a bit of shyness to his response, and tucked a stray hair behind his ear with his free hand. "I'm here to pick up some items for my uncle." He made a point to pat the front of his coat jacket nervously, then set down the owl cage. He pulled out the crumbled note he'd been carrying for weeks for this moment. It was slightly smudged, and had frayed edges, and did the perfect job of looking like a potioneer's memo. He pretended to read off the note, even though he knew exactly what he needed, “It says here… uhm, he needs 4 scoops of Lacewing flies, and 2 packets of ground bat wings… uh… and 1 jar of armadillo bile, as well as a, " he stretched out his hand to look at the paper scrap from a distance, then finished with a question, "a vial of Acromantula venom?” 

The woman's eyebrows rose at the last ingredient, and her eyes narrowed, "We don't sell those kinds of ingredients here." He already knew that. The venom was far more valuable than most items in this shop, and the security measures involved in protecting such ingredients would make for too much hassle. He wasn't expecting the woman to provide it to him. What he needed was something much more valuable. 

He made a desperate face and stepped closer to the counter, wringing both hands together, "But… my uncle, he said that you'd have some. He said that if I didn't bring back all the ingredients, he would test his newest concoctions on me. I still have hairy patches from the last test. And believe me, they itch like nothing you've ever known." His expression must have been convincing enough because she pursed her lips, then nodded once, clucking her tongue. 

"Alright, young man." She set her lips in a straight line, looking over him again, then with a shrug of her shoulders, she said, "I can't provide that ingredient to you, but I know someone who may be able to help you." She pulled out a small velvet bag from under the counter, and shook out the content. Three beetles fell onto the counter top, each adorned with a bright and vibrant iridescent jewel-like carapace and a small tag tied to its thorax. She pinched one and handed it to him. "Place this in the eyehole of Moribund's door. It will open the door for you." 

He took it into his hand, holding it gently, considering it was a live beetle. A bubbling sense of satisfaction rose in his chest. Everything was going according to plan. This was exactly what he'd needed for his final errand of the day. Without this tiny beetle, his plans would have fallen through. Well, that wasn't true. He'd made contingency plans as well, but this had the highest likelihood of succeeding. He liked it when he was right. 

She handed the rest of the ingredients to him in a large bag, and wished him good luck once he'd paid his bill. With the ingredients in one hand, and the cage in the other he made his way to Slug and Jiggers apothecary. His last stop before Moribund's.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've all been well! Enjoy this next chapter.

His stomach churned, uncomfortably thickening into nausea as he digested Professor Bagshot's words. He did not want to ask forthright if his merits from Hogwarts, the awards he received meant anything at all to her, because he feared hearing the truth. The truth that she'd only pitied him because he was Gellert's soulmate. 

The nauseating sensation crashed into the pit of his stomach with a punch, and he had to take a deep breath not to turn and puke into the snapdragons. The nausea was intense, far too intense for just some anxiety. He rubbed at his chest. He'd felt this before, the nausea when Gellert had gotten food poisoning. Why was Gellert nauseated now? "Can Soulmates feel each other through their connection?"

She hummed, and she stared up into the clouds, "I have tried, with little success, to find sources regarding Soulmates for my book, considering how unique it is to wizarding society. All one might find are stories, or myths, passed down for generations. There is some truth in patterns, and it seems the stronger the bond, the stronger the connection."

“How are bonds made stronger?” 

“How indeed. How might you strengthen your friendships?” 

The only real friendship he’d had was with Elphias, and they’d bonded because Elphias was the sort to follow anyone with a bit of sense like a dog, not that he ever told him that. Though, there were times when either of them could have abandoned each other, and they didn’t. “By overcoming hardships, and understanding each other.” 

She nodded, happy with his answer. "Yes." The high-achieving student in him preened at the validation, and he hid a smile. It was short-lived anyhow. 

“I don’t think Gellert wants to strengthen any bond between us.” He hung his head, feeling the tendrils of self doubt growing. 

"Why is it so hard to believe?" She asked.

"He..." hurt me, he stopped himself from saying. Bagshot might not understand and think the worst. Which he supposed it might have been, considering he'd been bodily harmed, emotionally harmed, as well as mentally harmed in the last two days. "hasn't been very open." 

"Give him time, dear, it’s only been a few days." Had it really been only a few days? It felt like a monsoon had come and swept away his old life, and flooded his world with thoughts of Gellert. Perhaps the urgency he felt wasn’t his own then. That it had more to do with that marked date on the calendar. What had that Druid woman said? Something about Gellert’s fate being sealed on his seventeenth year? 

The questions piled. He needed answers, or else he'd go mad. "What else can you tell me about Soulmates? What do the stories and texts say?"

She tapped her fingers against the photo book, "Hmm, let's see. The soulmarks only started appearing in the Middle Ages, but soulmates have been recorded in history for much longer." 

"Why do you think that is, Professor?"

"If i had to theorize, I suspect the Soulmarks were man made, even if Soulmates are not.” 

His brows met together, “What do you mean?” 

“The marks always appear as names, at least in this part of the world. It seems unlikely that it is a natural occurrence, considering the names are always in an alphabet that can be read and understood by the bearer. Why do you think that might be?” 

He recalled his own marks darkening along his wrist, and ran his fingertips along the scarred flesh. “I suppose it could be to make it easier for the pair to meet.” 

She nodded, “And, what benefit would there be to meeting each other.” 

He’d never thought about this before. He’d just accepted it as a part of the world, without question. It was hard to imagine it as anything but enigmatic mysticism. “I’m not sure.”

The Professor turned to him, her eyes soft and full of care. “Do you ever wonder why Soulmates whose pair has died, will also follow suit within a few years, or less?” Her voice shifted, and her own hand grazed the inner side of her left wrist. “Which do you think is better? Living your life without ever knowing them, or having the chance to at least have them by your side for however much time fate grants you?” 

The words stuck darts of pain inside his chest, slowly blooming into a pain at the thought of either options. Life before Gellert had been dull. Like nothing particularly interesting had ever happened. He’d filled his days with endless tasks, because there had been something missing in his life. To go back to that… he’d prefer not to think about it and focused on something else. His eyes darted down at the bare flesh of her wrist that she held gently, then up at her. "You… had a Soulmate." He said slowly enough that the Professor could correct him at any point. 

Her eyes crinkled again. "Yes.”

“But… you never met them.” 

She slowly nodded, “Piotr Torovski. I remember wondering whether they were Polish, and whether they would think my name is silly. But the mark faded before I met him. All I have left is the memory of it, but even that will fade in time." 

“Is that why you never married?” 

She nodded once more, and smiled, “Even if I never knew them, no one else will be able to complete me, as it is with all Soulmates who’ve lost their pair.” Then she patted his hand, “but I see it as a blessing as well. Had I met them, and fate was cruel, then we would both have perished, and I would not have done all that I have in this life.” Despite her reassurance, he could see the bittersweet tang in her smile. 

It weighed heavily on his mind and he felt the urge to find Gellert. Just to see him. Even if he wasn't wanted around. "I'm sorry, Professor, but there's something I need to do." 

Her smile was gentle, like the breeze against his skin. "Go. Spend as much time together as you can." He nodded, and disapparated from the bench with only the thought of Gellert on his mind. 

He appeared in what looked to be a shop queue, knocking the person, and their possessions into the air. A cloth arced in the air, revealing a distressed owl in a magician's flourish, along with jars of green substance, a burlap sack, parcels ribboned in yellow, and a very shiny jewel. As he fell back, he thrust out a hand, and with all his concentrations, suspended the falling of the items, along with the man he'd disturbed. 

"I'm so sorry!" He blurted, as the items touched the ground with a gentle pat. He began to gather the scattered materials, sweeping the ribboned parcels, and burlap sack first. The jewel jerked and scuttled past him, slowed by the paper tag tied to its middle. 

"Grab that scarab," a very familiar voice shouted, and he threw down whatever he was holding to leap forward with his arms outstretched to clap both hands down on the iridescent beetle. He missed. 

It darted towards another dark corner, this time under a display case, and the other man attempted to capture it, instead landing bodily against the wooden floor unsuccessfully. By now, the clerk also had a stake in capturing the bug, considering all the damages two desperate men might inflict on his merchandise and hollered at them, "Stop this nonsense!" 

They paid him no mind, and focused solely on capturing the beetle which had gotten itself trapped between them. He pounced. 

And so did the other man. 

Their heads crashed together so hard, his sight was temporarily stolen by a splitting pain. He groaned but cracked an eye open, saw the slight reflection of the beetle's carapace, and stomped it with the side of his boot. It crunched. 

He popped up and grabbed the beetle from under his boot. A leg twitched. A hand plucked it out of his hand and blew lightly on it. The legs began twitching all at once, frantically, like it was dreaming a very nasty nightmare. The man clasped it in his hand and tucked it back into his pocket. "Thank you… for your help." The words were clipped and said with an odd nasally tone that hadn't been there before. 

"It was my fault really." He said, as he bent down to pick up the rest of the packages. He lifted the dark fabric, and a pair of very angry slitted eyes stared back and him, forcing him to drop the fabric. He jerked his head up at the dark hair man, "What in Merlin's name is that?" 

The man stiffly lifted the fabric over the cage again, pinning it down. "An owl." 

He shook his head. It clearly wasn't just an owl, but he supposed in a world of magic, there were far more unusual beasts than that. He brushed off the dust and dirt he'd gathered jumping about the shop, and looked around for Gellert. That's odd. He wasn't here. 

The man he'd landed on had returned to the counter, very obviously putting his back towards him. "I'd like 10 bottles of Sleeping Draught, 5 bottles of Calming Draught, and Draught of the Living Death if you're good enough to sell it." 

The man's mouth dropped in shock. "Of course we have it." The clerk's voice crept into a high octave, cracking as it did so. "I'll have you know we only sell the best of the best here, that's why I had my world-famous Bell-ease Potion stolen just yesterday. Everyone wants a piece of it… and me." 

Albus did his best not to look guilty. It was an honest mistake really. Should have left a single sickle instead it seems. Pretending to browse the shelves of potion bottles, he kept an ear on their conversation. Something about the man's voice had been familiar. Did he know him from Hogwarts? 

"I'll take two then." The dark haired man said.

He waited until the door swung, ringing the bell, before darting out the door, trailing after the man. The man walked with a vigorous pace, forcing him to weave and jog between the people on the street. He almost lost him, when he saw the dark head duck into a side alley. He slowed on the approach, and peeked down the narrow corridor. It was darker here, the afternoon shadow already casting its shroud in the corners. He was careful to keep his footsteps quiet and poked his head around the next bend. 

A hand shot out and grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him deeper into the shadow. "How did you find me." Gellert's white eye peered at him with a crease between his brows. He winced. 

"I just apparated." He said with a shrug. 

Gellert shut his eyes and sighed, then let him go without another word. Gellert handed him the bag and cage. "Here, hold these, since you're here." 

He obliged, wrapping an arm around the cage and balancing the bag somewhere inbetween. "Listen. I wanted to talk to you about something…" It had felt like a matter of life and death when he'd told the Professor he had to go, but now, standing in the alley, with Gellert sweeping his fingers through his white hair, he couldn't exactly find the courage to say it all. Godric Gryffindor forgive him. 

Gellert, surprisingly, stopped what he was doing, and waited for him to continue. He swallowed dryly, then opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Again, surprisingly, Gellert waited, his hands falling to his sides. 

He tried again, clearing his throat, "I wanted to say I'm sorry." 

Gellert froze, his face washing blank. He hurried to clarify, "When I transfigured into you, I noticed it made you uncomfortable, or upset, or whatever. I just wanted to apologize for that. I'm not very good at it, and it was my first try at mimicking a person, so if I had more practice, I'd be better at it, but you always make me feel like I need to get it right the first time around, so I'm just telling you that I'm not perfect, and…" His voice trailed off because his brain finally caught on that his mouth had gone off the deep end on its own. 

He glimpsed a passing expression, possibly the faintest smile, before it disappeared. Gellert nodded, "Well, I'm not sorry. When dealing with the most powerful wizard in the world, one should have high expectations." There was no smirk or smile on Gellert face, but he could hear it in the sing-song melody of Gellert's words. 

He rolled his eyes, though his heart was beating fast as a jackrabbit in a dograce, "Stop exaggerating." 

"I don't exaggerate." The joking tone vanished completely, and Albus thought his face was going to melt off with how much blood was rushing to it. 

"And… I was worried." His voice was barely above a whisper. 

Gellert leaned in, as if to hear better, "About?" 

He shifted the cage onto his hip, "I felt a lot of nausea, and I know it wasn't really mine." 

Gellert was silent, then nodded, "It's fine. I'm just piss poor at Apparating." 

He frowned. It didn't suit Gellert's image that he was incapable of something. "Did you splinch yourself?" 

"No… but it was a near miss." The admission in itself was a dichotomy of what he'd thought Gellert would be like. He'd thought Gellert would be the type to hide his weaknesses, and only present an indomitable force around him. But was this the real Gellert? Or just a mask he wore. When they'd first met, and Gellert transfigured the spoon, there had been an undertone of flirtation, but that had been scraped away the moment he tore the letters from his wrist. 

"I could teach you… probably," He'd tutored here and there during his years at Hogwarts, but Apparation wasn't the Levitation spell or something simple like Expelliarmus. 

Gellert brushed it aside with a hand, "Not right now. It's late, and I have one last stop to make. Go home."

"Why can't I come with you?" He stepped closer. 

Gellert sighed, "Can you transfigure into a disguise? Someone young, preferably." As Gellert spoke, he began touching his face, here and there, making the skin sag and wrinkle. The white eye darkened into black, matching the other. The hair remained white and wispy. The man was no longer Gellert, but instead an elegant but elderly man, with a slight hunch to his shoulders. 

"How…" His mouth opened to speak, but he shut it. This was more the Gellert he'd imagined. Of coursed he'd be good at disguising himself with transfiguration, as if it was a 1st year task. 

"Are you going to transfigure or not? If you aren't, take those to Bagshot's place. Just leave it in my room." 

He pressed his lips together. Merlin, Gellert expected entirely too much out of him. He thought about how he'd changed his face to look more like Gellert's, stretching it here, pinching it there, letting his bones shift a little. He closed his eyes, conjuring Aberforth's face to mind. Aberforth had a narrower face than him, but bushier eyebrows, with darker hair. If it was a disguise, it would be poor sport to be disguised as someone we was related to. Elphias had some eccentric features, perhaps that would work. He extended his ears to protrude a bit more, and widened his mouth to be a bit more frog-like. 

Blinking, he opened his eyes, "How'd I do?"

Gellert's gaze did not change, "You look nothing like yourself with all that ugliness. Clever."

He kept blinking. Had… that been a compliment?

Gellert beckoned him, easing into a slightly different gait than his usual even strides, adding a limp to his right step. Even his voice sounded different, rasping in a lower pitch, "Let me do the talking. Just keep your mouth shut, and look dumb." 

He nodded as he followed Gellert's footsteps, hauling the bags and cage in his arms like some errand boy. He didn't mind, as long as he was here with Gellert, even if they were headed straight for the seediest part of Knockturn Alley, which wasn't suspicious at all.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing my best to keep up with this fic, but with the increasing amount of ridicule of the pairing in media, it's a little depressing.   
> Not to say that the way they were originally portrayed in the movies makes much sense, but with the right foundation it could be.   
> I started writing this fic because I felt like there were gaps, and plot holes, and thought the two deserved better. 
> 
> Anyways, how is everyone else feeling about this pairing. What drew you to them?

His chest coiled and writhed like serpents as they walked through the streets. Of course, no sooner had he regained his composure, Albus returned with an oblivious vengeance, ripping away the fragile guards he’d put up with a powerful blow. It hadn’t helped when his lungs fill with warmth, like an empty cup acquainting itself to warm tea for the first time, to hear that Albus came because he’d been worried about him. He wanted to burn those feelings into ash. It made it so difficult not to care when he’d heard the doubt in Albus’ voice about his own abilities.

There could be no doubt that Albus was special, but to be surprised over and over again, that was something else. It was impossible. Albus was the impossible. Who could stand the presence of someone who’d already crushed their dreams, repeatedly engaged in harmful acts, physically, emotionally, and mentally, and still be genuinely concerned about the person’s wellbeing? He already knew that Albus still bled red like the rest of them, but it would not change the fact that Albus' heart may be made of molten gold. 

He listened to the footsteps, unable to distract himself from Albus’ presence nearby, hating himself for indulging his weaknesses, because he’d slowed his gait to a labored pace, leaning heavily into his limp unnecessarily. He just didn’t want this moment to end, even if he wanted to destroy it just as quickly. How much more of this could he take before he crumbled? Would it be enough? 

The torturous contentment ended when they reached the dark door with a sign scrawled, “Moribund’s” nailed to it. They arrived both too quickly, and too slowly. He couldn’t decide which. Either way, he couldn't waste more time.

He pulled out the little scarab from his pocket and set it into the mail slot, watching it squeeze through. Moments later, the door creaked open, only just enough to let orange light spill out like a poltergeist, sickly and dusty. It smelled of death and the dying. Not great for his recently upset stomach. He cleared the lingering nausea with a cough and hobbled his way into the door. He heard Albus shuffle in behind him, then the door slammed shut with a bang. 

A bald goblin with black kohl smeared under and around his eyes, sneered at them from an armchair crammed in between towers of jars and eclectic items, puffing on the blunt end of a cigar. “How’d you get one of my beetles,” The voice scraped and rattled like bones in a tumbler. 

He placed one hand over the other, and stood just a fraction straighter, and with a heavier Slavic accent, he said, “I was referred.” 

“By whom,” The beaked nose sniffed harshly.

He let his wrinkles fold as he smiled, “By someone who knows you can be trusted with secrets.”

The beady black eyes peered, without the slightest inflection of what the goblin might be thinking. Knobby knuckles rolled the cigar, puffs of smoke billowing out around it. “And you think you can be trusted?” The accusation was clear in the tone, though the goblin’s expression hadn’t changed. 

“You have my word.” He replied with a twist of his wrist. 

The goblin laughed, biting at the cigar, then letting smoke out of his nostrils, “As if that’s of any value.”

He slid the grin wider on his face, “Yet, you haven’t turned me away.”

The goblin puffed again, eyes going from his wrinkled face to Albus’, then back to his. “What is it that you want.” 

“Acromantula Venom, Boomslang Skin, and three vials of Veritaserum.” 

The smoke coiled around the goblin’s giant nose, and rows of sharp teeth appeared in a smile, “Veritaserum is regulated by the Ministry.”

He shrugged, “And I expect you hold a certain amount of stock.”

“One thousand Galleons.” The goblin muttered. “For the ingredients and the silence.”

It was a number he’d been expecting, and it had honestly not mattered, but he had to look the businessman, and without haggling, it would seem suspicious. “700 Galleons, and my silence as well, for the unicorn blood I see you've recently put into stock, considering the lack of dust around the shelf. I'm sure the Ministry would be rather keen on finding out where you procured it from.”

Moribund’s puffing stopped and he pulled the cigar from his mouth, and set it down. “Was that a threat?”

“Only If you want it to be.” He replied lifting his head a little further. 

The goblin chewed the end of the cigar, “The Acromantula venom will take time to procure. It’s just as rare as unicorn blood these days.” 

"How long." 

"It could be a day, or many months." The goblin shrugged, splitting his cracked lips into a long pointed smile.

He turned, as if to ponder the answer. The Acromantula venom was only an integral part of his plans to get him here inside this establishment. He had no real need for it, but it would be suspicious to ask for it, and retract his interest. "I will wait then. Half upfront to encourage a speedy transaction." 

The goblin raised a brow, slicking his words with sarcasm, "Anything else you need, your Majesty?" 

He smiled, a wicked one of his own, using too many teeth, "Why yes, there is. There is one other thing I'd like you to do for me." 

The goblin narrowed his eyes, pulling the cigar out of his mouth, "And what might that be?" 

"Tell me how to evade death, and I will pay in full upfront." 

The goblin's black eye twinkled and he grinned a crooked and ugly smile. "Death is it? You wish to trick death?" 

He smiled, "Perhaps." 

Moribund leaned back into his cushions, pursing his lips together, then he pressed the cigar into an ashtray, sliding off his seat. As he hobbled around the shop, waving his knobby fingers to coax the items off his shelves and towers, he rasped in a low voice, "Death is as inevitable as the night after the sun has set." The vials of Veritaserum floated into a box lined with velvet, shutting quietly before him. 

"You cannot stop death, no more than you can stop the night." The Boomslang skin crinkled as it was placed into a sack. "But you can keep it at bay, as one might with a lantern in the dead of night." 

He exchanged the gold to Moribund as the box of vials, and the sack of boomslang skin was handed to him. The goblin snapped his fingers and the gold vanished. He motioned for Albus to retrieve the items off the counter, which he did with some difficulty maneuvering around the towers and items. 

Moribund sat back down in his arm chair, and flicked his wrist, calling a fresh cigar into his fingers. The tip lit as he breathed it in, puffing at it lightly. Once the smoke became a thick billowing curtain, pouring out of his nostrils and mouth, he spoke again, "There is a man in Paris who has made this type of lantern, or rather a stone." 

"And his name?"

"Nicolas Flamel." The goblin rasped. 

They did not return to their true selves until they were many streets away from Moribund's and tucked somewhere no one could see them. He wiped away the saggy skin, and the winkles, shaking out the stiffness in his muscles, as Albus did the same, shedding the ugliness that had hid him so well. 

Albus had been unusually quiet during their walk, and hadn't stopped boring holes into his head with his eyes. He finally turned and faced him, raising a brow, "What is it?" 

Albus's mouth opened, then shut, and shook his head, "It's nothing." 

He shrugged, lifting the cage from the ground along with the bags he'd accrued over the course of the day. It was almost nightfall now. He'd managed to make all his stops today, miraculously. When he lifted his head again, Albus met his eyes, a light burning behind them, fervent and determined. A shiver ran down his back, unbalancing him inside. 

Albus took a step forward, and asked him, "Can I touch you? I just… it was strange seeing you, not as yourself." 

He shifted the bags in one hand and the cage in the other, "If it puts you at ease." He said, even though he should have told him to bugger off and not come near. He was getting weaker it seemed. Inevitably as the night. 

Albus was slow in his approach, tentative with his steps, but when his hand did touch his skin, it was warm against the side of his neck. Albus closed the gap between them, and pressed his body against his, wrapping his arms around his neck and tucking his bowed head underneath his chin. He fit perfectly. 

He could hear Albus inhaling, and the thump of his heart. He could feel the warmth seeping through their clothes, lighting fires in his stomach and chest. He could smell the cinnamon and smoke of Albus's clothes. It was everything he could have wished for, and everything he couldn't have, but he was weakening. It was inevitable as the night. 

When Albus released him, he felt light on his feet, like he'd floated off the ground. It should have been a disturbing feeling, but rather it made his heart soft, and that crack grow ever so bigger along his walls. Why? Why couldn't Albus make this easy for him? Why did he have to be this way? 

He was glad that he held too many things in his hands to reciprocate the gesture. It would be a terrible thing. 

Albus didn't quite let go of him, holding a hand against his waist, his head was still bowed, and a flush had rushed into his cheeks, "Do you think that I could join you wherever you go? I could help with the Apparating. I'm very good at that. You'll feel a little nauseated but you won't ever get splinched. And I could help carry things for you, and I'll be quiet, like I was today--" 

"Alright." He said, just to get Albus to stop talking. He really needed to learn how to stop rambling. 

"Really?" Albus's eyes brightened into two round channels of hope and adoration. 

"Yes." He said, with as much control over the smile that threatened to sneak onto his face as he could muster. "Let's get back to Bagshot's, then." 

Albus nodded and wrapped his arm around his waist, just as the Apparation pulled in into the vortex, spitting them out onto the street the next instant, without much of a blunder. The world around him spun for a moment, but it was nothing like his own experiences with Apparating. He really did need to learn how to do that. 

"Well… I guess I'll see you tomorrow then? Seeing as it's dinnertime and all. Gotta get back to my family." Albus shifted his weight from one foot to another, as if waiting for something. 

He nodded, "Tomorrow. Good night Albus." He turned away and lugged his bags and the cage up into the house. 

He barely heard Bagshot greeting him as he took the stairs to his room, his thoughts swirling around what was to come. He laid out each ingredient on his desk, and conjured the pewter cauldron from his suitcase. He dumped the Lacewings into the cauldron and let it stew in the corner of his desk. On the calendar, he marked the 22nd with a circle, then the 30th with another.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind words and positive responses to my concerns from last chapter!   
> It's amazing to have such supportive readers, and I appreciate all the comments!   
> Life's gotten a little busy so it's taken me some time to squeeze out this chapter, but I hope you enjoy the direction its going now that the two of them are on better terms!   
> Again, please let me know what you think. It brightens my days to read each comment.

He laid in bed, wide awake, with the blankets shoved to one end of the narrow space and Aberforth's snoring in his ears. The snoring wasn't the issue. He'd grown used to it over the years in a dormitory. Only set fire to the bed curtains the one time. Just the once. He'd learned to live with it since then. 

And it wasn't hot. He'd made sure to check the Cooling spells around the house wards after dinner. They'd been working just fine, even if he still felt uncomfortable in his own skin. 

Any other night, and he'd pin it on the anxiety that haunted him, but for once, it wasn't that. 

It was something else. 

With a sigh, he twisted off the bed, peeling off the shirt he wore, and climbed down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky areas. He didn't want to wake Ariana. His bare feet padded against the worn wood of the staircase, easing his weight down each step. He made it to the bottom without a sound, and made his way to the kitchen, furthest away from Ariana's room. 

In the darkness of night, he could barely make out the shapes inside the kitchen. But, it was an empty space, more utility than homemaking ever since Mother died. Keeping it stocked was an endeavor that he hadn't managed to accomplish, and he'd never been much interested in house duties. Dust had begun to gather in a few of the corners. Yet another thing he'd rather turn a blind eye towards. 

He reached the only source of light, dim moonlight spilling from the window, and opened it, letting the breeze push it wide, entering the room with a breath of fresh air. Shutting his eyes, he breathed in deep, letting it fill his lungs. 

That was it, wasn't it. He'd been given a fresh breath of air. 

For the first time in weeks, he felt alive again. He'd forgotten what it was like, since coming back to Godric's Hollow. He'd been drained of it, each day leeching away his confidence, his dreams, and his future. This place was a cage, no matter how invisible, trapping not just his body, but his mind. He'd been rotting. Losing all sense of his identity, and staining his memories and accomplishments with doubt. 

Until Gellert appeared. 

It didn't matter that their time together had been far from rose-colored, as his wrists could remind him easily every time he moved. He would not deny that he'd been harmed by Gellert. From the start, Gellert had hurt him physically, then emotionally, and even mentally, by tearing through his memory. But each wound Gellert had inflicted, had reminded him that his heart still beat and he was no ghost drifting in this world. He still mattered, because if he was no one, why fight him? 

His heartbeat raced at the memories of Gellert, his lips, the white eye, and his voice in the dense fog that had surrounded him. Not once had Gellert doubted him, despite having known him for more than a couple of days. Not once had Gellert dismissed him as someone unworthy. And even when he'd felt overwhelmed, or reacted poorly to a situation, Gellert had not looked down upon him. He'd accepted him, just as he was. Even when he hadn't been strong or brave. 

He let out the breath he held, airing out the cobwebs inside his chest and mind. His heart drummed inside, steady and whole again. He'd see Gellert tomorrow. He'd be alive again tomorrow. 

\----

"Breakfast is ready, dear!" Professor Bagshot called up the stairs as he set the table. 

She sat down on the side closest to the doorway, as Gellert's footsteps approached. Gellert's hair was tousled, unevenly swept on his head, like he didn't care how it appeared. He didn't wear his coat, nor his vest, just the loose white shirt that hung across his shoulders. The sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, like he'd been working. The darkness under his eyes suggested he'd been doing just that throughout the night. 

Gellert rounded the table and took the seat next to his, despite the other three seats that he could have chosen that would have given him plenty of space. His heartbeat picked up speed at the thought, as did his temperature. 

He opened his mouth to greet him, when Gellert began filling his plate with warm bread and bacon from the serving dishes. His eyes rose to Professor Bagshot's and she smiled back at him, as they both watched Gellert fill his plate. It wasn't until he'd had a full plate that Gellert served himself, just a few strips of bacon and a buttered roll. 

"Thanks," he managed to say, through the shock. 

"I'm glad to see you're both getting along well." The Professor's voice was kind and understanding, without any sort of teasing. 

He opened his mouth to say something but Gellert beat him to it, "I've been meaning to apologize, great aunt, for my immaturity and ill manners. I should have thanked you earlier for allowing me to stay here. I'm very grateful for your hospitality, and I'm deeply sorry if I have been rude." 

Professor Bagshot's face didn't hid her surprise, but it was soon replaced with a warm smile, "No matter, my dear. All water under the bridge, as they say." 

Gellert's face lifted into a smile, and for all anyone would know, it seemed perfectly genuine. "Although I don't want to seem like I'm making excuses, I've been rather focused on my research, so it seems I've been blinded by my ambitions." Gellert began cutting into the bacon as he continued, "As I mentioned to you in my letters, I've been researching old artifacts of wizard history." 

"Yes," she nodded as she sipped at her tea, "You mentioned you wanted to know more about Godric Gryffindor and other individuals of importance who had live here." 

Gellert then turned to look at him with his bright white eye, a twinkle shining as it caught the light, "Well, with Albus's help, I've been able to track down a real artifact that I could study for my thesis." 

Bagshot smiled, her keen eyes darting between them, "Glad to hear. Albus is a very clever young man." 

Gellert set his utensils down, clasping his hands over his plate, "You remember how we asked you about the Potter family the other day?" 

The Professor nods, and Gellert continued, "I was hoping I could meet them, and speak to them myself regarding their family's heirlooms and the importance of them in Wizard History. I'm sure you can understand my disappointment to hear that they are no longer residing in Godric's Hollow." 

He chewed at his food as Gellert spoke. Gellert was rather animated today. Very different from Gellert's usual restrained self. 

"I noticed that you don't have an owl, so I took it upon myself to get you a gift. He's a very small owl, so he shouldn't be too much of a bother. I was hoping you could write the Potters a letter of introduction, so that I may visit them." Gellert smiled, again with that perfect sincerity of a deceiver. 

The Professor did not question it, "Thank you, Gellert, how very thoughtful of you. Of course I shall write a letter to the Potters on your behalf." 

Gellert's smile widened and he had to look away before his body flushed into an entirely different state. He could not fathom how handsome Gellert looked when he smiled like that. He focused on putting the food into his mouth and chewing it, careful not to look over at Gellert's face. That was dangerous. 

"Thank you, Aunt Bathilda. I'm so very grateful." Gellert spoke with a lilt in his voice, and finished his breakfast, conversing in small talk, as if there was nothing strange about it. 

He followed Gellert into his room once they'd finished clearing the table, and closed the door behind them. "What was that about?" He asked. 

Gellert's face smoothed into the expressionless canvas that looked far more normal than the smile he'd worn during breakfast. His darker eye fixed to his and lifted a brow, "What was what about?" 

His hand swept towards the dining room downstairs, "The act, with the Professor." The room didn't look much different than it had last night, but there were far more cauldrons about the room, clocks, and other apparatuses that he'd only seen in Potions class. 

Gellert turned his attention to him, walking towards him in measured steps. Each step felt like the approach of a predator, and he resisted the urge to back away. Besides, the door was behind him. He had nowhere to go. Gellert's eyes held his as he felt the door knob digging into his back. The white one pulled him in as the darker one pushed him further against the door until he was flat against the wood. His breath felt far away, "Gellert?" 

Gellert leaned in, almost close enough to touch. He could feel Gellert's breath against the edge of his ear, sending the sensation straight down his spine. Gellert's voice was deep even as just barely a whisper, "What makes you think it was an act?" 

He couldn't tell which was the more difficult task. Keeping his legs straight and standing, or his thoughts on what Gellert was saying. His ear tingled at Gellert's words. He closed his eyes, but it only made it worse. "Uhm, well, I… it's just that…" He was making a fool of himself. He pulled his head away from Gellert's face, turning it away, "I've never seen you smile like that." 

Gellert let him go, and stepped away, giving him enough space to breathe again. "What… like this?" 

He looked up, to his mistake, and saw the shifting of muscles and flash of straight white teeth, a smile so handsome he felt his mouth dry up and his blood rush south. He whimpered, and shifted to hide his reaction, but he couldn't move further away with the door behind him. He wanted to melt into the wood like a nymph and never face this embarrassment ever again. 

Gellert didn't mock him, instead just turned away and took a seat at the desk, picking up a book. "I couldn't risk her refusing." He nodded. He could understand exactly how irrefutably that smile was. He slid down the door, until he was sitting with his knees against his chest and the door digging into his back. 

He sighed, "So what's next?" 

Gellert paged through the book, "We wait." 

He frowned, running his fingers through his hair, "What, that's it? We wait?" 

Gellert's white eye met his, "I'm sure we can find a way to pass the time."


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an update per say, but I figured I could share this doodle of Grindelwald I did.   
> Slowly working on the next chapter.


	33. Chapter 33

Sleep had evaded him all night, which he’d typically find as a blessing, but he hadn’t slept properly in quite some time and there was a notable haze hindering his logic and reasoning. Both had been replaced with a false excitement in the form of delirium. He was forgetting why he needed to keep Albus at a distance. Why he needed to stop making him smile. Why he shouldn't be indulging in these soft, squishy, warm feelings inside his chest whenever Albus was around. Which was why, against his usual better judgement, he offered his seat to Albus, and carried his reading material to the bed.

“—missing some of the ingredients for this Polyjuice potion. And don’t try to deny it. You’ve got a cauldron brewing Lacewings and you’ve marked your calendar with the exact amount of days you’re brewing it. I know a place where we can find fluxweed and knotgrass…” Gellert opened his eyes. _When had he closed them?_ Albus looked up as Gellert shifted on the bed, straightening his back again. He cleared his throat and met Albus’ gaze. So blue… Albus smiled at him, just the bit at the very corner of his mouth. He couldn't look away, and watched the lips as they began to move. “We can talk about it next time.”

He shook his head, with a little more aggression than necessary for a polite rejection. He needed to stay awake. He cleared his throat again, “No, you were saying you knew somewhere to find fluxweed and knotgrass.” He focused on the color of Albus’ eyes, letting them draw him in. So blue.

“There’s patches of it in the Forbidden Forest by Hogwarts, and don’t worry, the Forbidden part only applies to current students…”Albus’ voice lulled him into a darkness he slid into like a pool of warm water. He sunk deep, submerged in the void, when he became _aware_.

He opened his eyes, but it was dark. Too dark for his all but too human eyes. Dread pumped through his veins with every heart beat that drummed in his ears. He knew this feeling. He knew it too well.

He was dreaming.

The darkness shifted, tentacles forming a cloud of crackling whips, as arid as the desert sand, scorching his skin. A pull in his gut told him that he needed to get to the center of it. To stop it. But his legs wouldn’t move. Frustration spiked as he tried to move anything in his body, but he was fixated. Paralyzed.

_Let me GO!_

He tried to open his mouth, but he couldn’t even make a sound. He could do nothing against the torrent of the black sand storm before him. The mass writhed around like a perpetual engine, creating and destroying itself simultaneously. If it weren’t for the boiling in his blood that screamed that this was wrong, he would have found it mesmerizing.

“Gellert!”

A gasp choked its way up and out of his throat. He knew that voice. It was the only voice that mattered. And it was crying his name. He screamed silently in his mind, and strained against the invisible restraints that kept his body frozen in this timeless void.

Black tendrils exploded once more, scraping against his skin, and a scream that made his blood freeze pierced his ears like a hundred needles stabbing into his eardrums. The cloud cleared and a person, stood at the center, the face covered in black. He felt fear. Crippling fear of what was to come.

The blackness where a mouth should be opened, and a screech so inhuman he could not understand the words cut through his chest, _“I’ll kill you!”_

A thousand whips cut through his skin, flaying him alive. “Gellert!”

He strained, and strained, until he felt the muscles of his neck tear, and he could finally see, a white face in the darkness, swallowed up in the waves of black ash and sand whips.

“NO!” He shot up, eyes peeling wide open, scouring the planes of grey and black for the face.

Something grabbed his shoulder and he jerked his head, wand flying to his hand to deflect whatever was attacking him, but before he could, a voice snapped, “ _Expelliarmus_.” The wand flung away from his fingertips, and the instinctive primal part of his mind obeyed the underlying law in his blood, preventing his other hand to blast whatever was attached to it. _No fatal harm._

The hand slid down his bicep and to his wrist, as a voice shushed him, calming his thundering heart. “It was just a dream.”

All the adrenaline and fear that manifested in his veins exploded in the form of rage as he yanked his arm away, and snarled at Albus. “Get away from me!" He roared as he swept off the bed, grabbing his wand from Albus’ hand, and once again, against his better judgement, he Disapparated with a thunderous crack.

He was swept through the vortex, and he wrestled with his mind for a destination. He screamed as his mind clawed at anything resembling a proper destination, and he felt the vortex snag his torso, even as he forced himself out of the tunnel onto the hard surface of a tombstone. Pain exploded as he hit the stone, splitting opening the splinched flesh along his thigh. He flipped his weight over and slapped a shaking hand against the wound.

He’d gone through worse, he reminded himself.

A twig snapped, and he flung his wand towards it without a second thought, “ _Diffindo_.”

With sickening slow pace, the white flash spun across the narrow space towards Albus’ chest. In the moments when time slid to a crawl, Albus’ eyes caught the light of the spell and without grabbing his wand, had a hand thrust out, curving the trajectory, with just a twitch of his wrist.

Gellert’s breath would not come, it remained stuck to his throat.

He wasn’t sure what unnerved him more. The ease in which Albus deflected his attack, or the fussy and terribly concerned manner in which he was shuffling towards him, flinging himself to his side.

“Are you alright?” The fool asked him.

Him.

Asked _him_.

His breath punched out of his lungs in a swoop and he tipped back, laying back against the tombstone. Merlin. Why was Albus everything Gellert had dreamed of him being? Why did Albus have to make this so hard?

The dream, no, nightmare, had terrified him in ways no other dream had. It felt too real and too futile. As if there was nothing he would be able to do to save Albus. If his plan didn’t succeed… the result would be the same.

“Gellert! Your leg!” Albus’ fingers fluttered over his mangled thigh. The soft blue eyes studied every inch of him, looking for any other major injuries. Even after he cast a spell to hurt him.

He would have laughed, if he didn’t think it would have come out more like a wretched sob. This was exactly the reason why he had to sever the ties between them. No matter how much their strengthening bond was pulling and yanking at him. He needed to put a barrier between them. Something that staved away these feelings Albus had for him. Once and for all.

It was for the best.

He raised his wand again, flicking it downward as it arced in the air. “ _Confringo_!”

Albus’ face snapped to shock even as he deflected with his wand just in time to get blasted into the air, against another tombstone. The sound of the thud punched Gellert through the chest.

When Albus stood back up, rather than looking frightened or apprehensive, the energy around Albus made the hair ripple, and his eyes twinkled a bit more like sunlight. Albus held out a hand, showing his palms. Like he was handling a dangerous animal. Gellert gritted his teeth and took his open palm, ripping it backwards then threw it forward, slinging, “ _Everte statum_.”

Albus merely sidestepped it, and cast a retort, “ _Stupefy_.” A traditionally well-regarded charm, polite and acceptable in any social duel. Albus didn’t understand. This wasn’t a polite fight. He flicked his wand, deflecting it easily, even from his prone position against the tombstone.

He snarled, “ _Expulso_.”

Albus took a step forward, and said, “ _Protego_ ,” deflecting the spell with a smooth ease.

Again and again, he threw everything he had, letting go of words and wand flicks, just relying on his desperation and his pleas to make Albus hate him. Albus continued to take steps forward, only using deflection spells, until he was so close, no amount of reflex would save him.

The spell died on his chest before he could even will it to harm Albus. With his magic depleted, he sank against the stone, watching his blood stain the grass and dirt with black. Albus was at his side, gently applying healing spells to the gashes in his leg. The pain was subsiding from his leg, but his chest felt like his heart was eating all the other organs within his ribs.

Dumbledore spoke first, after the last of his wounds were mended. “You fight better than I do.”

This time, he did laugh. Or at least he hoped it sounded like laughing. Either way, it made his chest ache in pounding waves, and he hid his face behind his bloody hand. He was defeated.

He couldn’t win against Albus.

They were both damned.

A hand slid around his wrist, and he shuddered at the warmth. It hadn’t been laughing. Nowhere close. He could taste the salt and iron dripping into his mouth. Albus’ fingers ran along his bare forearms and pulled it away from his face. “I’m glad I found you.” The meanings overlapped and insinuated along his veins like the warmth spreading up his arm.

Gellert looked up at Albus’ face, his closed eyes, the long lashes brushing against blushing cheeks, and the way stray locks of hair fell into the gentle face. Perhaps if their circumstances were different, he would have reached out with his other hand to brush the hair out of Albus’ eyes, and tuck it behind a curved earlobe. His breath caught in his chest again as he ground out the urge, the words silently answering Albus. _I’m sorry you did._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The cost of love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745404) by [KawaiiKitsuneGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KawaiiKitsuneGirl/pseuds/KawaiiKitsuneGirl)




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